REST 
HOUSE 


..:•..-.      '  .. 


CLARKE 


THE   REST  HOUSE 


Novels  by  Isabel  C.  Clarke 


Each  $1.S5  net.     Pottage,  10  centt  extra 


FINE  CLAY 

"A  fine  novel,  worthy  of  a  place  alongside 
of  Mgr.  Benson's  and  Canon  Sheehan's." — 
Messenger  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 


BY  THE  BLUE  RIVER 

"Its  gripping  power  is  substantial.  It  is 
truly  a  throbbing  story  of  heart  interest." — 
The  Tablet. 


THE  SECRET  CITADEL 

"Fragrant  with  the  same  mystical  element 
that  stamped  'By  the  Blue  River*  as  a  work 
of  art." — Catholic  Trantcript. 


PRISONERS'  YEARS 

"Not  only  masterly,  but  in  a  certain  way 
masterful  " — America. 


ONLY  ANNE 

"The  story  has  a  haunting  beauty  compar- 
able only  to  that  of  Lucas  Malet's  'The  F*r 
Horizon.'" — The  Republic. 


THE  REST  HOUSE 


BY 


ISABEL  C.  CLARKE 


NEW  YORK,  CTWCIWWATI,  CHICAGO 

BENZIGER  BROTHERS 

PUBLISHEftS    Of    BENZIOEl's    MAGAZINE 

1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  BENZIGEH  BHOTHEBS 


CONTENTS 

PAG* 

Chapter  I 7 

Chapter  II 22 

Chapter  III 39 

Chapter  IV 55 

Chapter  V 66 

Chapter  VI 77 

Chapter  VII 88 

Chapter  VIII 99 

Chapter  IX 126 

Chapter  X 139 

Chapter  XI 148 

Chapter  XII       .      . 175 

Chapter  XIII 183 

Chapter  XIV 199 

Chapter  XV 216 

Chapter  XVI 226 

Chapter  XVII 242 

Chapter  XVIII 253 

Chapter  XIX 262 

Chapter  XX       ........  276 

Chapter  XXI 292 

5 


2134711 


6  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Chapter  XXII 298 

Chapter  XXIII 312 

Chapter  XXIV 323 

Chapter  XXV 343 

Chapter  XXVI 358 

Chapter  XXVII 378 


THE  REST  HOUSE 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  WAS  snowing  hard,  and  the  wind  blew  against 
their  faces,  stinging  them  as  if  it  were  hurling 
little  sharp  arrow-heads  of  ice  against  them — 
diminutive  weapons  that  yet  managed  to  add  con- 
siderably to  the  unpleasantness  of  their  present 
lot,  in  the  opinion  of  these  two  people  arrested 
in  their  journey  by  the  sudden  plunge  of  the  car 
into  a  deep  snowdrift. 

Peggy  Metcalfe  stood  shivering  in  the  road ;  her 
teeth  were  chattering,  and  her  hands  and  feet 
were  becoming  every  moment  more  and  more 
numb.  She  watched  with  mechanical  attention 
the  prostrate  form  of  her  brother  Peter,  who  was 
"doing  things"  to  the  car,  here  in  this  lonely  and 
rather  wild  part  of  North  Somersetshire. 

All  around  them  the  field  spread  white,  frozen, 
and  cheerless.  Beyond  the  fields  the  hills  stood 
up  snow-covered  against  a  leaden  gray  sky. 
Here  and  there  deep  blots  of  brown  stained  the 
white — disclosing  woods  that  were  as  yet  un- 
buried  beneath  the  snowy  pall.  It  was  extraordi- 
narily silent,  with  the  peculiar  and  muffled  quiet 
which  invariably  follows  a  heavy  snowfall;  and 
in  the  silence  Peggy,  who  was  impressionable, 
discerned  a  touch  of  that  hostility  which  Nature 
seems  to  betray  when  she  finds  human  beings 

7 


8  THE  REST  HOUSE 

suddenly  at  her  mercy,  AS  if  she  wished  to  take 
the  opportunity  of  showing  them  that  despite 
all  their  endeavors  to  tame,  train,  and  civilize  her, 
she  yet  remains  uncrowned  sovereign  of  them  all, 
cruelly  powerful,  serenely  indifferent,  pursuing 
her  royal,  relentless  course  without  pity  or  com- 
punction. 

Those  who  live  in  close  contact  with  her,  who 
habitually  submit  rather  than  struggle  and  who 
have  neither  the  means  nor  the  ability  to  combat 
her,  are  less  afraid  of  Nature  in  her  wild  moods ; 
just  as  those  who  are  grimly  accustomed  to  the 
storm,  the  whirlwind,  the  earthquake,  acknowl- 
edge her  superior  power  and  bow  before  it. 

But  Peggy  was  softly  nurtured.  She  was  ac- 
customed to  surroundings  that  were  extremely 
comfortable  and  luxurious,  and  where  efforts 
were  always  being  made  to  increase  that  com- 
fort and  luxury.  If  the  temperature  at  Mildon 
Park  fell  below  a  certain  point,  Nature  was  not 
blamed,  but  some  one  who  was  responsible  for 
the  central  heating  was  very  soundly  rebuked. 
Such  misfortunes  were,  however,  extremely  rare, 
for  the  domestic  wheels  at  Sir  John  Metcalfe's 
great  Surrey  residence  were  well  oiled,  and,  as 
like  consorts  with  like  in  this  world,  Peggy  had 
small  knowledge  of  human  habitations  where 
lesser  standards  of  comfort  prevailed. 

Just  now,  in  spite  of  the  cold  and  a  rague 
anxiety  that  occasionally  rose  in  her  mind  in 
spite  of  all  efforts  to  repress  it,  she  was  enjoying 
herself  thoroughly.  She  even  lifted  her  face, 
which  was  unveiled,  to  the  sky,  heedless  of  the 
sting  of  half-frozen  snow  and  the  buffeting  of  the 


THE  REST  HOUSE  9 

bleak  gale.  It  made  her  feel  so  extraordinarily 
alive,  and  though  she  shivered  and  her  face 
smarted  as  if  it  had  been  skinned,  these  physical 
discomforts  in  no  way  diminished  her  joy  in  the 
sense  of  unusual  freedom.  She  was  going  to 
show  Nature  that  she  was  not  afraid  of  those 
silent,  lonely,  hostile  fields!  Even  if  they  had 
indeed  been  peopled  with  invisible  malevolent 
presences  bent  on  destroying  herself  and  Peter 
(and  this  dreadful  thought  had  once  or  twice  fan- 
tastically occurred  to  her  mind),  she  would  still 
have  lifted  a  brave,  smiling,  little  face  to  the  sky. 

It  was  such  a  small,  slight  face,  so  delicately 
modeled  in  all  its  lines,  that  only  the  very  per- 
fection of  its  contour  saved  it  from  triviality. 
You  might  have  passed  Peggy  by,  but  if  you  had 
paused  to  look  at  her  you  would  certainly  have 
looked  a  second  and  third  time.  Her  dark  brown 
hair  was  soft  as  a  cloud  and  she  wore  it  very 
simply  dressed;  her  eyes  were  brown,  too,  and  a 
shade  or  two  darker  than  the  hair  and  rather 
thickly  fringed  with  lashes  that  lent  them  depth 
and  softness,  as  dark  lashes  always  do ;  her  com- 
plexion was  of  that  white  colorlessness  which 
sometimes  accompanies  dark  hair.  In  her  own 
family  Peggy  was  not  considered  at  all  beauti- 
ful, perhaps  because  she  had  been  regarded  as  a 
plain  child,  and  this  adverse  opinion  had  clung 
to  her.  Peter  was  the  only  one  who  thought  dif- 
ferently, but  then  he  had  always  been — as  the 
Metcalfes  said — "silly  about  Peggy." 

After  a  considerable  interval  Peter  emerged 
from  beneath  the  car.  He  stood  up,  shook  him- 
self somewhat  after  the  manner  of  a  big  dog,  so 


10  THE  REST  HOUSE 

that  the  snow  fell  in  little  heaps  from  his  coat,  and 
looked  at  Peggy. 

"Can't  you  start  her?"  said  Peggy. 

"No.  I  think  you'd  better  get  in,  and  I'll  go 
and  look  for  help.  Don't  stand  there  in  the  snow 
any  longer,  Pegs!" 

There  was  a  note  of  anxiety  in  Peter's  voice 
as  he  advanced  these  suggestions.  The  daylight 
was  fast  dying,  and  only  a  pale,  narrow,  saffron- 
hued  bar  broke  in  the  west  that  uniform  gray  sky 
which  had  the  thick  opaque  look  appropriate  to  a 
severe  snowstorm  that  has  not  yet  done  its  worst. 

"I'd  rather  come  with  you,"  said  Peggy  with 
decision.  "It'll  be  quite  safe  to  leave  the  car.  If 
she  won't  move  for  you,  she  won't  move  for  any 
one.  And  if  some  one  came  and  tried  to  steal  her 
I  couldn't  stop  him." 

This  irrefutable  logic  did  not  appear  all  at  once 
to  convince  Peter  Metcalfe.  He  was  getting  a 
little  anxious  about  his  sister. 

"But,  Pegs,  dear,  your  feet  must  be  simply 
soaking,"  he  said. 

Peggy  had  always  ruled  Peter  ever  since  she 
was  a  mite  of  five  years  old  and  he  had  been  a 
school-boy  of  nine.  They  had  formed  even  then 
a  kind  of  alliance,  offensive  and  defensive,  against 
the  two  superior  elder  sisters,  Diana  and  Beatrice. 
Vivian,  the  younger  son,  who  preferred  peace, 
alternately  lent  the  weight  of  his  person  to  each 
opposing  camp.  He  had  a  sneaking  wish  to  sup- 
port Peggy  coupled  with  a  jealous  hostility 
evoked  by  the  superior  prowess  of  Peter;  these 
conflicting  emotions  made  his  championship  un- 
reliable, nevertheless  he  leaned  greatly  to  the 


THE  REST  HOUSE  11 

winning  side  as  represented  by  Diana  and  Bea- 
trice. Beatrice  would  have  been  a  waverer,  too, 
but  the  hand  of  Diana  pressed  heavily,  and 
though  she  loved  Peter,  she  looked  upon  Peggy 
as  a  baby,  and  a  very  naughty  and  rebellious 
baby  to  boot.  To  side  with  a  person  who  by 
nature  is  always  getting  into  scrapes  and  merit- 
ing and  receiving  punishment  from  the  Olympi- 
ans almost  always  means  that  you  become  in- 
volved in  both  scraps  and  consequences;  it  is 
safer,  therefore,  to  associate  yourself  with  the 
person  who  represents  morality  and  order.  It 
had  seemed  all  the  more  extraordinary  that  in 
those  youthful  days  Peter,  who  in  age  came  be- 
tween Beatrice  and  Vivian,  should  have  so  con- 
sistently supported  Peggy  through  thick  and 
thin,  suffering  heroically  at  times  the  pains  and 
penalties  consequent  upon  this  ill-advised  cham- 
pionship. 

The  ties  thus  formed  held  still,  and  the  closest 
and  most  intimate  friendship  existed  between 
Peter  and  Peggy  Metcalfe. 

"Never  mind  about  me,"  said  Peggy  cheer- 
fully, "I  love  this  kind  of  thing.  It  is  such  a 
delicious  change!  Where  do  you  think  we  are 
now,  Peter?" 

Peter  looked  at  his  watch  and  then  opened  a 
map.  Peggy  held  one  end  of  it  and  they  stood 
side  by  side,  examining  it  together. 

"It  is  about  an  hour  and  a  half  since  we  left 
Chippenham,"  he  said.  "Of  course  we  ought  to 
have  stuck  to  the  Reading  road  instead  of  trying 
this  silly  short-cut.  That  last  village  must  have 
been  Marshfield.  I  wish  we'd  started  in  the 


12  THE  REST  HOUSE 

morning  instead  of  waiting  till  after  luncheon.  I 
knew  it  was  going  to  snow."  He  glanced  rue- 
fully at  the  sky,  which  held  but  one  promise,  that 
of  more  snow  and  yet  more  snow.  Even  in  those 
few  minutes  his  cap  and  the  broad  shoulders  of 
his  coat  were  thickly  encrusted,  while  Peggy's 
slender,  gracile  form,  enveloped  in  a  heavy  wrap, 
was  becoming  every  moment  whiter  and  whiter. 

"Let's  walk  on  anyhow,"  she  said  cheerfully, 
"and  see  if  we  can  see  any  signs  of  human  habi- 
tation." 

She  spoke  carelessly,  for  she  could  perceive  that 
Peter  was  growing  increasingly  anxious.  Be- 
sides, they  were  only  wasting  time  in  idle  dis- 
cussion, and  darkness  would  soon  be  upon  them. 

"We  shall  have  to  send  a  telegram  and  say  we 
can't  get  home  to-night,"  she  said  as  they  trudged 
up  the  hill.  As  she  spoke,  a  picture  of  that  fine 
old  Georgian  house  rose  with  a  certain  seductive- 
ness before  her  mental  vision.  Already  the  blinds 
would  be  drawn  down  so  that  her  mother  might 
not  be  disagreeably  reminded  of  the  inclement 
conditions  that  prevailed  outside.  Electric  light, 
masses  of  flowers,  a  huge,  blazing  fire  of  logs 
would  create  that  artificial  impression  of  warmth 
and  light  so  conducive  to  physical  comfort.  The 
newest  books  from  Mudie's,  the  latest  illustrated 
papers  and  reviews  would  lie  on  a  table  within 
comfortable  reach  of  Lady  Metcalfe's  armchair. 
But  at  that  moment  Peggy  would  not  have  ex- 
changed the  chill  bleak  wildness  of  the  Somer- 
setshire hills  for  the  serene  environment  of  Mil- 
don.  She  liked  the  rough  wind,  the  blizzard,  the 
cold,  the  forlorn  discomfort  of  it  all. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  13 

They  walked  in  silence  up  the  hill,  leaving  the 
motor  securely  ensconced  in  a  snowdrift  under 
the  hedge.  It  looked  a  curiously  derelict  and 
abandoned  object  in  its  stolid  immovability. 

On  reaching  the  top  of  the  hill  the  prospect 
held  nothing  of  hope.  Bleak  white  hills,  wide 
white  frozen  fields,  brown  willows  that  possibly 
indicated  the  course  of  a  canal,  met  their  vision. 
There  was  no  sign  of  any  village,  no  sign  even 
of  farm  or  house.  The  whole  world  had  an  in- 
hospitable, uninhabited  aspect. 

"I  don't  believe  that  was  Marshfield,"  said 
Peggy  irrelevantly. 

"Of  course  it  was  Marshfield,"  Peter  main- 
tained stoutly. 

After  that  they  were  silent  again,  for  it  really 
did  not  help  them  particularly  to  know  whether 
they  had  passed  through  Marshfield  half  an  hour 
ago  or  not.  What  did  matter  very  much  was 
the  fact  that  they  were  not  now  approaching 
Mildon,  where  they  would  certainly  be  expected 
not  later  than  tea-time.  Properly  speaking, 
Peggy  had  no  business  to  be  here  at  all ;  she  should 
have  returned  home  by  train  with  her  maid.  Even 
Beatrice — who  was  now  Lady  Charsley — had 
counseled  this  course,  which  was  so  obviously  ap- 
propriate. Peter  and  Peggy  had  been  spending 
a  week  with  her  at  Lavender — that  famous 
Gloucestershire  seat  of  the  Charsleys.  Peter, 
whose  motor  was  a  very  recent  acquisition,  had 
always  intended  to  travel  home  in  it,  but  it  was 
not  until  the  eleventh  hour  that  Peggy  had  pre- 
vailed upon  him  to  let  her  accompany  him.  She 
pleaded  the  dullness  of  the  cold  cross-country 


14  THE  REST  HOUSE 

journey,  the  frequent  changes,  the  long  wait  at 
Oxford.  It  would  be  much  quicker  to  go  in  the 
car,  and  much  more  fun!  Peter  feared  the  dis- 
approval of  the  Olympians,  for  he  had  no  chauf- 
feur with  him,  and  was  regarded  as  both  reckless 
and  inexperienced.  Beatrice  always  faithfully 
represented  the  Olympian  point  of  view,  and  her 
arguments  were  all  in  favor  of  Peggy's  traveling 
by  train.  Now  Peter,  who  had  allowed  himself 
to  be  overruled — as  usual — by  Peggy,  recognized 
when  it  was  too  late  the  inherent  wisdom  of  those 
stern  infallibles. 

They  walked  on  rather  aimlessly,  and  came  at 
last  to  an  open,  rather  dilapidated  five-barred 
gate,  hanging  loose  upon  its  hinges.  Probably  a 
rough  road  led  thence  across  the  fields  hidden  be- 
neath that  pall  of  snow.  There  was  a  clump  of 
trees  at  an  inconsiderable  distance  from  the  gate, 
standing  upon  a  slight  eminence,  that  might  pos- 
sibly conceal  a  farmhouse  or  perhaps  a  cottage. 
But  Peter  was  reluctant  to  leave  the  highroad. 
Another  car  might  possibly  pass,  and  tow  his  own 
off  in  its  wake.  He  wondered  why  he  had  never 
thought  of  this  contingency  before. 

"It's  just  a  chance,"  said  Peggy,  after  they  had 
surveyed  the  place  for  a  moment;  "we  may  as 
well  try."  She  plunged  forward  into  the  deep 
snow  that  came  nearly  to  her  knees. 

A  shrill  and  sustained  barking  emerged  from 
the  clump  of  trees.  As  they  drew  nearer  the 
sound  increased  to  a  passionate  and  even  hostile 
protest.  Substantial  shadows  as  of  buildings 
darkened  the  space  between  the  clustered  stems. 
Then  a  light  gleamed  palely,  like  a  solitary  star. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  15 

"It  is  a  house,"  said  Peggy  briskly. 

Peter  was  now  in  a  thoroughly  pessimistic 
mood.  The  ire  of  the  Olympians  loomed  large 
before  his  mental  vision.  It  would  be  a  bad  be- 
ginning to  the  Christmas  holidays.  Sir  John  had 
the  disagreeable  but  not  uncommon  habit  of  re- 
verting to  any  past  manifestation  of  stupidity, 
incompetency,  or  frailty  on  the  part  of  his  off- 
spring whenever  his  wrath  was  aroused.  This 
episode  would  furnish  him  with  material  to  em- 
bitter their  interviews  for  months  to  come! 

"And  if  it  is  a  house,"  said  Peter  gloomily,  "I 
don't  see  what  use  it  can  possibly  be  to  us." 

"Why,  you  said  you  would  try  to  find  help," 
Peggy  reminded  him,  "and  I  am  very  hungry. 
I  hope  it  will  mean  tea  and  perhaps  cake.  And 
a  fire  and  some  dry  clothes.  And  a  man  to  go 
with  you  and  help  you  to  get  the  car  out  of  the 
snow.  And  then  it  will  be  so  nice  to  know  ex- 
actly where  we  are !" 

"I  am  sure  it  will  mean  nothing  of  the  sort," 
said  Peter.  "Such  a  house  as  that — if  it  is  a  house 
at  all,  which  I  very  much  doubt — can  only  be  in- 
habited by  some  cross-grained  old  curmudgeon 
who  hates  the  sight  of  his  fellow-creatures,  and 
will  probably  take  us  for  tramps  or  thieves  and 
slam  the  door  in  our  faces." 

"Dear  Peter,"  said  Peggy,  and  she  linked  her 
arm  in  her  brother's,  "I  don't  really  see  why " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  at  that 
moment  the  owner  of  the  bark,  a  small  dark 
Scotch  terrier,  ran  out  toward  them  uttering 
those  sustained  and  infuriated  canine  menaces 
so  characteristic  of  his  kind. 


16  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Peggy  spoke  to  him  reassuringly,  as  if  he  were 
a  personal  friend,  which  appeared  to  mollify  or 
at  least  subdue  the  original  ferocity  of  his  inten- 
tions, for  he  ran  back  toward  the  house  barking 
as  if  to  announce  rather  than  to  repel  their  ap- 
proach. In  a  few  minutes  they  came  to  a  second 
gate  leading  to  a  small  winding  path  guarded  by 
twin  rows  of  conifers  and  evergreen  shrubs  now 
heavily  burdened  with  snow.  Beyond,  on  a  slight 
eminence,  sheltered  by  a  few  taller  trees,  there 
stood  a  square,  solid  house  built  of  Bath  stone 
and  darkened  with  age.  There  were  lights  in 
some  of  the  windows.  Peter,  encouraged  by 
something  homely  and  sheltering  in  its  aspect, 
went  forward  boldly,  and  going  up  to  the  front 
door,  rang  the  bell.  The  dog  had  by  this  time 
disappeared  to  the  back  regions. 

"We  do  look  like  tramps,"  said  Peggy,  smiling 
at  her  brother. 

A  maid  servant  opened  tfie  door,  disclosing  a 
square,  sparsely  furnished  hall.  It  had  a  shabby 
aspect,  and  the  linoleum  that  covered  the  floor  was 
so  worn  that  no  pattern  was  visible. 

"Oh,  can  we  come  in,  please?"  said  Peggy; 
"we've  lost  our  way,  and  we've  left  the  motor  in 
a  snowdrift  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill!" 

The  maid  smiled  broadly :  she  was  a  young, 
shy,  country  girl, 

"Please  come  in,  Miss,"  she  said,  "and  I'll  go 
and  call  Miss  Mary." 

She  shut  the  door,  and  leaving  them  standing 
in  the  hall,  vanished.  Peter  and  Peggy  stared  at 
each  other  in  the  lamplight.  The  warmer  atmos- 
phere— though  even  here  it  was  not  very  warm— 


THE  REST  HOUSE  17 

melted  the  snow  upon  their  clothes,  and  the  drips 
fell  thickly  upon  the  floor. 

"We  shall  make  an  awful  mess  of  the  place," 
said  Peter,  stamping  his  feet  in  a  vain  endeavor 
to  restore  their  circulation. 

"I  wonder  who  Miss  Mary  is,"  whispered 
Peggy. 

"The  farmer's  daughter,  probably,"  said  Peter. 

They  had  not  waited  very  long  when  the  door 
at  the  end  of  the  hall  was  once  more  opened  and  a 
girl  entered.  She  did  not  look  very  much  older 
than  Peggy,  and  she  was  dressed  sensibly  if  a 
trifle  shabbily  in  a  short  blue  serge  skirt,  a  flannel 
blouse,  and  a  dark  blue  knitted  coat.  She  had  red 
hair  and  very  pale  blue  eyes  and  a  charming  smile 
that  set  Peggy  at  once  at  her  ease,  and  indeed 
reassured  both  the  wayfarers.  Peter  began  to 
apologize  for  the  intrusion,  but  Miss  Mary  only 
said  pleasantly : 

"I  can  send  the  gardener  to  help  you  with  the 
car — the  other  men  went  home  early  on  account 
of  the  snow.  He  could  take  one  of  the  farm 
horses  if  that  would  be  any  use.  I  wish  Fred- 
erick were  back — he  would  know  exactly  what  to 
do!'* 

"Oh,  but  that'll  do  simply  splendidly,"  said 
Peter;  "thank  you  very  much.  And  if  you  could 
kindly  lend  my  sister  some  dry  clothes." 

"Oh,  I'll  look  after  your  sister,"  said  Miss 
Mary,  smiling  at  Peggy,  "and  I'll  have  a  room 
ready  for  you  too  by  the  time  you  return.  We've 
lots  of  spare  room  here,  luckily.  You  mustn't 
dream  of  going  on  anywhere  to-night.  Why,  it's 
eight  miles  to  Coldford,  our  nearest  town,  and 


18  THE  REST  HOUSE 

five  to  Hintlecombe,  our  nearest  station,  and  you 
might  stick  in  another  drift." 

"Oh,  we  couldn't  possibly  dream  of  trespass- 
ing upon  you  like  that,"  said  Peggy,  her  eyes 
shining. 

"We  shall  be  only  too  delighted.    We  so  sel- 
dom have  visitors  here.     We  are  quite  alone— 
my  father,  my  brother  and  I.    You  will  tell  me 
your  names?" 

"I'm  Peter  Metcalfe,"  said  Peter,  "and  this 
is  my  sister  Peggy.  We're  on  our  way  to  Mildon 
in  Surrey,  where  our  home  is." 

Miss  Mary  rang  the  bell;  the  little  maid  re- 
appeared and  listened  attentively  to  the  brief 
orders  that  were  given.  It  was  quite  evident  that 
Miss  Mary,  if  not  actually  an  Olympian,  held  a 
position  of  undoubted  authority.  Nor  was  she  a 
person  to  be  "rattled"  by  an  emergency  even 
when  it  was  represented  by  the  arrival  of  two 
wet,  half-frozen  strangers.  There  was  some- 
thing calm  and  competent  about  her. 

After  a  very  short  delay  Peter,  accompanied  by 
a  man  and  a  horse  and  armed  with  a  lantern  and 
some  tools  and  a  rope,  disappeared  once  more 
into  the  snow.  When  they  had  gone  Miss  Mary 
conducted  Peggy  upstairs  to  her  own  room.  As 
they  left  the  hall  and  turned  down  a  passage,  a 
whiff  of  an  unfamiliar  odor  assailed  Peggy's  nos- 
trils. She  wondered  a  little  idly  what  it  could  be. 
It  was  pungent  and  aromatic,  but  not  scented, 
and  it  penetrated  up  the  stairs,  almost  like  a  thin 
smoke. 

"It's  warmer  in  my  room,  as  there's  a  fire,"  said 
Miss  Mary.  "I  think  you  had  better  take  off  all 


THE  REST  HOUSE  19 

your  things  and  wear  some  of  mine.  They  are 
sure  to  be  too  big  for  you,  but  that  won't  matter. 
I'll  bring  you  some  hot  water." 

Peggy  stooped  down  and  began  to  take  off  her 
boots,  a  matter  of  some  difficulty  as  they  were 
stiff  with  moisture  and  her  feet  were  cold  and 
swollen.  Miss  Mary,  meanwhile,  opened  in  turn 
drawers  and  cupboards  remarkable  for  their  ad- 
mirable and  meticulous  neatness,  and  produced 
various  garments  which  she  laid  upon  the  bed.  A 
white  silk  blouse  most  carefully  guarded  between 
sheets  of  silver  paper  represented  Miss  Mary's 
most  precious  and  cherished  "best,"  but  she  now 
offered  it  to  Peggy  without  a  qualm.  A 
skirt  of  gray  cashmere  scarcely  less  pre- 
cious than  the  blouse  was  laid  on  the  bed  by  its 
side. 

"Do  you  think  they  will  do?"  she  asked,  for 
something  in  the  simple  elegance  of  Peggy's 
attire  as  she  flung  off  her  heavy  fur  coat  made  her 
feel  suddenly  humble  about  these,  the  only  gar- 
ments she  was  able  to  offer. 

"Oh,  they're  far  too  good  for  me,"  said  Peggy, 
her  eyes  shining;  "how  awfully  kind  of  you.  I 
don't  know  how  to  thank  you.  I  was  just  getting 
the  least  bit  nervous  with  the  darkness  coming 
on  and  our  both  getting  colder  every  minute. 
And  we  never  hoped  to  find  any  one  as  kind  and 
thoughtful  as  you  have  been!" 

Miss  Mary  colored  a  little  at  the  praise.  She 
was  accustomed  to  much  self-denial,  to  much 
tender  consideration  of  others,  and  those  others 
being  a  father  and  a  brother,  though  both  sin- 
cerely devoted  to  her,  were  inclined  to  take  her 


20  THE  REST  HOUSE 

unselfishness  rather  for  granted.    The  praise  and 
the  thanks  were  novelties  to  her. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  found  your  way  here,  Miss 
Metcalfe,"  she  said.  "I  will  go  away  now  and 
see  about  a  room  for  your  brother  when  he  comes 
back.  I  hope  you  will  take  a  little  rest  when 
you  have  put  on  these  dry  things." 

She  moved  toward  the  door  and  before  leaving 
the  room  she  said  rather  hesitatingly: 

"You  shall  have  some  tea  in  about  five  min- 
utes. It  is  only  half  past  four  now,  and  Bene- 
diction is  at  half  past  six — if  you  would  like  to 
come." 

Peggy  looked  at  her  in  frank  surprise. 

"Benediction?"  she  said. 

"Yes — we  are  Catholics  here,"  said  Miss  Mary, 
"and  we  have  a  chapel.  Just  now  we  have  an 
invalid  priest  staying  with  us,  so  we  have  Mass 
and  Benediction  every  day,  which  is  a  great  hap- 
piness." 

She  spoke  very  simply.    Peggy  said  shyly : 

"I  should  like  to  come.  But  I've  never  been 
to  Benediction  before  and  I  sha'n't  know  what  to 
do." 

"There's  nothing  to  do,"  said  Miss  Mary,  smil- 
ing. "But  unless  you  feel  too  tired  one  generally 
kneels  down  all  the  time  after  the  priest  comes 
in." 

She  returned  once  more,  bringing  a  tray  with 
some  hot  tea  and  a  plate  of  bread  and  butter  for 
Peggy.  Then  she  left  her  alone  and  hurried  away 
to  superintend  the  preparation  of  their  rooms. 
And  after  that  there  was  supper  to  be  thought  of, 
for  some  addition  to  their  simple  little  evening 


THE  REST  HOUSE  21 

meal  was  surely  necessary,  for  the  entertaining  of 
these  two  strangers. 

But  first  of  all  she  must  go  down  to  the  study 
and  tell  her  father  of  the  unexpected  arrival  of 
these  guests,  and  beg  him  to  break  the  news  to 
Frederick  as  soon  as  he  returned. 

She  was  not  quite  sure  whether  Frederick 
would  be  pleased.  He  was  shy  and  disliked 
visitors  and  especially  strangers;  she  hoped  he 
would  be  polite  and  not  too  abrupt  in  his  manner 
to  Peter  and  Peggy. 


CHAPTER  II 

DRESSED  in  Mary's  clothes,  which  were  de- 
cidedly roomy  for  her,  Peggy  sat  in  an  arm- 
chair by  the  fire  and  drank  her  tea,  which  was 
stronger  than  Lady  Metcalf e  would  have  deemed 
desirable  for  her  daughter's  nerves — and  com- 
plexion. She  finished  the  bread  and  butter  and 
ate,  too,  the  slice  of  brown  home-made  cake  which 
Mary  had  brought  for  her.  Then  she  leaned 
back  in  the  chair  and  suddenly  realized  how  very 
tired  she  was,  and  how  delicious  it  was  to  be  once 
more  sheltered  and  dry  and  warm. 

An  unaccustomed  sense  of  physical  well-being 
and  ease  came  over  her.  She  felt  as  if  she  would 
like  to  close  her  eyes  and  go  quietly  to  sleep.  It 
was  the  snow,  she  told  herself,  that  had  made  her 
so  strangely  sleepy. 

Peggy  closed  her  eyes.  She  was  conscious  now 
— as  far  as  she  could  be  said  to  be  definitely  con- 
scious of  anything  at  all — that  with  that  sense 
of  physical  ease  there  had  come  to  her  a  serenity 
that  could  not  be  called  physical  at  all.  It  was  as 
if  some  cool,  quiet  spirit  of  peace  had  come  over 
her  and  laid  its  hands  or  perhaps  its  wings  upon 
her  heart,  her  soul. 

The  room  where  she  was  sitting  was  plain  and 
rather  bare.  The  furniture  was  of  painted  deal 
and  the  carpet  on  the  floor  was  almost  thread- 
bare. The  little  iron  bed  was  covered  with  a  white 
cotton  counterpane.  Everything  was  scrupu- 
lously clean  and  neat,  but  everything  in  it  be- 
trayed also  the  poverty  of  its  owner. 

22 


THE  REST  HOUSE  23 

As  she  lay  there  with  her  eyes  closed  and  her 
limbs  slackened  and  inert,  she  fell  into  a  delicious, 
restful  slumber  that  was  like  an  anodyne,  for  it 
took  away  all  the  pain,  the  intense  weariness  and 
fatigue  from  her  body,  and  bestowed  upon  her 
mind  a  sense  of  the  most  perfect  tranquillity.  As 
the  slumber  deepened  she  began  to  dream  and 
in  her  dream  she  found  herself  wandering  about 
again  in  the  darkness  and  cold  with  Peter  by  her 
side.  There  was  a  third  figure  with  them — that 
of  a  man  whose  face  she  could  not  see,  but  he  was 
a  bigger  man  than  Peter,  broader,  taller.  He 
walked  ahead  of  them  with  easy,  swinging  strides. 
.  .  .  And  then  suddenly  a  door  opened  and  they 
came  into  the  lamplit  hall  and  found  Miss  Maiy 
there  waiting  for  them.  Peggy  heard  a  voice 
cry  aloud  the  one  word  "Come !"  It  was  so  loud 
that  it  startled  her  and  awakened  her  from  her 
sleep.  She  rubbed  her  eyes  and  looked  round 
the  room.  The  fire  was  burning  low  in  the  grate, 
and  the  room  was  rather  less  light  in  consequence 
than  it  had  been.  She  was  quite  alone. 

The  sound  seemed  still  to  echo  in  her  ears,  as 
if  the  voice  had  spoken  quite  close  to  her,  and 
she  thought  for  the  moment  that  Miss  Mary 
must  have  called  to  her  to  go  down  to  the  chapel. 
But  nothing  stirred,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the 
room.  The  door  was  still  shut. 

"I  must  have  dreamed  it,"  said  Peggy  to  her- 
self. Yet  she  could  not  help  feeling  that  the 
word  had  been  actually  uttered,  and  that  it  had 
indeed  awakened  her.  Now  in  the  quiet  room  it 
seemed  to  acquire  a  certain  eerie,  almost  sinister 
significance  that  alarmed  her. 


24  THE  REST  HOUSE 

The  adventures  of  the  day  had  aroused  a  curi- 
ous excitement  in  Peggy.  Nothing  of  the  kind 
had  ever  happened  to  her  before,  for  she  had 
always  been  most  carefully  guarded  and  shel- 
tered, and  she  had  seldom  stayed  away  from  home 
unaccompanied  by  her  mother  unless  it  had  been 
on  a  visit  to  one  of  her  married  sisters.  But 
Diana  and  Beatrice  were  quite  as  strict  and  vig- 
ilant as  Lady  Metcalfe,  and  she  was  accorded  no 
more  liberty  when  she  was  with  them  than  she 
had  at  home.  But  the  events  of  the  past  few 
hours  seemed  to  have  broken  abruptly  the  smooth 
and  even  monotony  of  her  life.  There  had  been 
the  long  waiting  in  the  snow,  the  expedition  in 
search  of  help,  the  finding  of  this  little  lonely 
stone  house  set  in  the  bleak  hills  of  Somerset- 
shire, the  calm  welcome  offered  by  Miss  Mary, 
and  now  this  strange  dream!  ...  A  sudden 
alarm  seized  upon  Peggy,  due,  perhaps,  to  the 
excited  state  of  her  nerves.  She  was  quite  alone 
here,  in  a  strange  house  among  strange  people  of 
whom  she  knew  nothing  at  all.  She  had  heard 
terrifying  stories  of  travelers  being  lured  to 
lonely  dwellings  and  murdered  there  by  just  such 
apparently  kind  and  pleasant  women  as  Miss 
Mary! 

Oh,  why  had  she  allowed  Peter  to  leave  her? 
Why  had  she  not  insisted  upon  accompanying 
him?  The  echoes  of  that  voice  which  had  awak- 
ened her  had  died  away,  leaving  only  a  profound 
silence.  In  her  sudden  terror  Peggy  ran  to  the 
door  and  flung  it  open. 

It  was  a  relief  to  see  Miss  Mary's  figure  com- 
ing down  the  passage  toward  her  room.  Her 


THE  REST  HOUSE  25 

head  was  covered  with  a  small  black  lace  man- 
tilla. 

"I  was  just  coming  to  see  if  you  would  really 
care  to  come  down  for  Benediction,"  she  said  in 
her  tranquil,  steady  voice. 

She  looked  at  Peggy  and  wondered  if  she  had 
a  touch  of  fever.  Her  face,  that  before  had  been 
so  pale,  was  flushed,  and  her  eyes  were  shining 
strangely.  The  girl  looked  overwrought  and 
excited. 

"I  am  ready,  thank  you,"  said  Peggy.  "I 
should  like  to  come." 

Even  if  she  had  not  felt  this  eager  curiosity 
to  be  present  at  Benediction  she  would  have  ac- 
companied her  hostess  to  the  chapel  rather  than 
return  alone  to  that  silent  room,  to  a  possible 
repetition  of  that  strange  dream. 

She  felt  reassured  by  Miss  Mary's  simple  and 
kind  tone,  and  felt  ashamed  of  her  unworthy  and 
uncharitable  thoughts,  and  of  those  fears  which 
had  left  her  with  trembling  limbs  and  throbbing 
pulses. 

Miss  Mary  led  the  way  downstairs  and  along  a 
passage  dimly  lighted  by  a  small  oil  lamp.  It 
was  a  long  passage  that  must  have  run  the  whole 
width  of  the  house.  The  dark  oak  floor  was 
uneven,  and  it  was  uncovered  by  any  carpet; 
this  part  of  the  house  seemed  older  than  the  rest, 
Peggy  thought,  and  its  poverty  was  dignified  by 
age.  Quite  at  the  far  end  was  a  door  concealed 
by  a  dark  red  curtain.  Miss  Mary  paused, 
opened  a  drawer,  and  taking  out  a  black  lace 
veil,  handed  it  to  Peggy. 

"Shall  I  put  it  on  for  you?"  she  asked. 


26  THE  REST  HOUSE 

"Please,"  said  Peggy.  She  turned  and  faced 
her  hostess,  who  arranged  the  veil  on  her 
head  with  light,  skilful  fingers.  The  black 
frame  was  becoming  to  Peggy's  small,  slight 
face. 

Then  Miss  Mary  dipped  her  hand  into  a  little 
silver  stoup  that  hung  on  the  wall  near  the  door, 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  opening  the 
door,  ushered  Peggy  into  a  small  chapel.  It  was 
rather  dark,  and  at  first  Peggy  could  discern 
nothing  but  the  red  lamp  which  glimmered  ruby- 
like  before  the  tabernacle.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  the  perfume  of  spent  incense,  and  Peggy 
realized  now  that  this  was  the  odor  which  had 
accosted  her  nostrils  in  the  house  and  which  had 
been  the  first  thing  to  mystify  and  perplex  her. 
Miss  Mary  with  a  slight  gesture  indicated  a  prie- 
dieu,  and  Peggy  knelt  upon  it  and  bent  her  head. 
She  saw  that  Miss  Mary  genuflected  before  the 
altar,  and  then  disappeared  through  another 
door,  from  which  she  presently  emerged  again 
bearing  a  lighted  taper,  with  which  she  lit  the 
candles  upon  the  altar. 

As  Peggy's  eyes  became  more  accustomed  to 
the  obscurity  she  perceived  that  they  were  not 
alone,  that  there  were  other  figures  occupying 
two  prie-dieus  to  the  left.  Now  in  the  pale  illu- 
mination of  those  altar-candles  she  could  see  that 
the  figures  were  those  of  two  men,  but  their  faces 
were  averted  and  she  could  only  distinguish  that 
one  of  them  was  old  and  had  hair  of  silvery 
whiteness,  and  that  the  other  was  younger  and 
dark.  They  did  not  turn  to  look  at  her;  they 
were  motionless  and  apparently  absorbed.  Pres- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  27 

ently  there  was  a  slight  stir  and  a  boy  entered 
followed  by  a  priest  wearing  a  white  vestment. 
Hidden  voices  sang  the  O  Salutaris,  and  Peggy 
wondered  if  those  clear,  bird-like  notes  that  led 
the  singing  belonged  to  Miss  Mary.  The  Tantum 
Ergo  followed.  She  could  hear  the  words  of  the 
Latin  prayer  uttered  clearly  by  the  priest. 
"Deus,  qui  nobis  sub  sacramento  mirabili  pas- 
sionis  tuce  memoriam  reliquisti;  tribue,  qucesu- 
mus3  ita  nos  corporis  et  sanguinis  tui  sacra  mys- 
teria  venerari,  ut  redemptionis  tuce  fructum  in 
nobis  jugiter  sentiamus.  Qui  vivis  et  regnas  in 
scecula  sceculorum.  Amen."  .  .  .  Peggy,  look- 
ing up,  saw  that  the  priest  was  holding  a  gold 
monstrance  raised  high  above  his  head.  A  bell 
rang;  the  two  figures  bent  their  heads  as  if  in 
adoration.  Some  Latin  prayers  followed. 

What  did  it  all  mean?  Peggy  felt  as  if  she 
had  been  present  at  some  mysterious  but  very 
holy  rite.  And  she  felt,  too,  an  almost  passion- 
ate desire  to  understand  what  had  taken  place. 
She  seemed  to  be  a  child  groping  in  thick  dark- 
ness, ignorant,  unaware.  A  sudden  envy  of  Miss 
Mary  seized  upon  her.  What  was  it  that  this 
other  girl  possessed  which  she,  the  child  of  rich 
parents,  brought  up  to  every  possible  luxury, 
had  never  known?  Was  it  something  that 
might  satisfy  a  certain  wistfulness  of  soul 
which  had  often  made  her  restless,  discon- 
tented, dissatisfied?  Was  there  something  here 
that  might  prove  the  answer  to  her  formless 
prayers? 

Peggy  was  still  kneeling  there  when  Miss 
Mary  reappeared  and  with  swift  dexterity  extin- 


28  THE  REST  HOUSE 

guished  the  lights  upon  the  altar.  When  she 
had  finished  she  came  down  the  narrow  aisle  and 
touched  Peggy  on  the  shoulder.  She  was  faintly 
surprised  and  not  a  little  pleased  to  find  her  still 
kneeling  there  in  a  devout  attitude,  her  face 
hidden  in  her  hands.  But  she  rose  obediently 
now  and  slowly  followed  her  young  hostess  out 
of  the  chapel  almost  like  one  in  a  dream. 

Peggy  was  not  conscious  of  having  uttered  a 
single  prayer,  yet  she  must  surely  have  been 
praying — well,  not  exactly  praying,  perhaps,  but 
communing  with  some  Power,  some  Presence 
she  could  not  define. 

As  she  walked  out  of  the  chapel  she  turned  and 
genuflected  awkwardly  in  imitation  of  Miss 
Mary,  although  conscious  that  the  attempt  was 
rather  a  failure.  She  suffered  Miss  Mary  to  re- 
move her  veil  and  she  followed  her  down  the  pas- 
sage back  into  the  hall.  And  as  she  did  so  she 
flung  back  her  head  a  little,  and  there  came  into 
her  heart  that  first  impulse  of  proud  rebellion, 
which  is  perhaps  a  not  very  infrequent  one  when 
the  human  heart  feels  the  first  arrow  of  the  Di- 
vine Assailant,  and,  ignorant  and  unprepared, 
evinces  a  certain  resistance,  a  plea  for  liberty  .  .  . 
The  pain  that  saints  have  likened  to  the  sharp 
piercing  of  a  sword  in  the  heart  5s  in  itself 
sufficient  to  arouse  that  initial  rebellion.  What 
prisoner  still  able  to  free  himself  will  not  seek 
to  cast  away  the  chain  that  threatens  his  liberty? 
Peggy  felt  the  curious  imprisoning  sense  that 
sometimes  comes  to  the  reluctant,  hesitating  soul 
at  the  first  touch  of  divine  grace.  And  then 
she  remembered  inconsequently  the  cry  that  had 


THE  REST  HOUSE  29 

awakened  her — the  voice  that  had  called  "Come" 
across  her  slumber. 

As  they  entered  the  hall  they  saw  Peter  stand- 
ing there.  He  still  wore  his  coat,  which  was 
thickly  encrusted  with  snow;  he  seemed  to  have 
just  come  in. 

Peggy  rushed  forward  impulsively  and  cried: 
"Oh,  Peter,  darling,  I've  been  so  frightened." 

She  stopped  short.  In  the  presence  of  Miss 
Mary  she  could  hardly  relate  those  unworthy 
fears. 

Fortunately  both  her  hearers  misunderstood 
her. 

"Why,  what  was  there  to  be  frightened  at?" 
said  Peter,  in  a  cheery  tone.  "Did  you  think  I 
was  lost  in  the  snow?  We  had  an  awful  job 
to  get  the  car  out,  I  can  tell  you,  but  we  did 
it  at  last  and  we've  got  her  safe  and  sound  in  the 
yard.  And  I've  been  to  the  village  and  sent  a 
wire  home,  to  tell  them  we  are  all  right  but  that 
we  can't  be  back  till  to-morrow." 

His  words  reassured  Peggy,  who  was  look- 
ing at  him  in  a  bewildered  way.  It  hurt  her  and 
gave  her  a  sharp  sense  of  disloyalty  to  remember 
now  that  she  had  never  thought  of  Peter  at  all 
during  the  whole  two  hours  of  his  absence  except 
just  that  once  to  wish  that  he  had  not  abandoned 
her.  She  had  felt  no  anxiety  whatever  for  his 
safety,  and  he  believed  that  she  had  been  alarmed 
on  his  account. 

At  that  moment  the  two  men  she  had  first 
seen  in  the  chapel  came  into  the  hall.  Miss  Mary 
introduced  them. 

"Father,  this  is  Miss  Metcalfe  and  her  brother, 


30  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Mr.  Metcalfe."  She  turned  smiling  to  Peggy. 
"My  father,  Mr.  Morford,  and  my  brother  Fred- 
erick." 

Peggy  shook  hands  rather  shyly,  first  with  Mr. 
Morford,  who  was  younger  than  she  had  im- 
agined from  that  first  glimpse  of  his  white  head 
in  the  chapel,  and  then  with  Frederick  Morford, 
who  she  thought  had  rather  a  forbidding  aspect. 
He  was  tall  and  extremely  dark,  with  black  eyes 
set  under  very  straight  black  brows  that  were  a 
trifle  scowling,  and  a  thin,  hard  mouth  that  did 
not  smile  at  all  as  he  greeted  her.  Yet  the  face 
might  have  been  cast  from  some  ancient  statue,  so 
sharp  and  carven  in  their  regular  symmetry  were 
its  dark  lines. 

"My  daughter  has  been  telling  me  about  your 
adventures,"  said  Mr.  Morford.  "I  am  very  glad 
that  you  found  your  way  safely  here ;  there  isn't 
another  house  for  quite  three  miles.  I  hope  Mary 
has  been  looking  after  you  properly?" 

His  smile  included  his  daughter,  and  seemed 
to  convey  a  proud  confidence  that  she  had  not 
been  found  wanting  in  this  respect.  For  Mary's 
domestic  competence  was  due  to  long  training 
and  constant  practice.  It  would  never  have  oc- 
curred to  Mr.  Morford  to  refuse  to  accept  the 
constant  sacrifice  of  Mary  any  more  than  it 
would  have  occurred  to  her  to  refuse  to  offer 
that  constant  sacrifice  of  her  youth,  her  strength, 
her  time.  It  was  Mary's  duty  to  look  after  her 
father  and  brother,  and  she  accomplished  the 
task  as  a  matter  of  course.  Mrs.  Morford  had 
been  dead  about  five  years,  and  after  her  death 
Mary  had  slipped  into  her  place  and  fulfilled 


THE  REST  HOUSE  31 

the  tasks  bequeathed  to  her  by  those  delicate  dead 
hands.  Mr.  Morford  and  Frederick  had  their 
duties  just  as  Mary  had  hers.  The  little  house- 
hold was  a  singularly  united  one — united  in  its 
poverty,  in  its  faith,  and  perhaps,  too,  in  its 
resignation.  Frederick  looked  after  the  farm, 
and  also  acted  as  land-agent  to  a  neighboring 
squire,  Sir  Arthur  Denby.  The  work  was  rather 
more  than  enough  for  one  man;  it  reduced  his 
hours  of  leisure  to  a  minimum,  but  he  had  youth 
and  courage  and  energy.  Mr.  Morford's  health 
was  failing,  but  he  was  still  able  to  do  a  little 
literary  work  for  Catholic  firms  and  newspapers. 
When  Mary's  household  tasks  were  ended  she 
often  typed  for  a  couple  of  hours  for  her  father. 
Their  united  incomes  sufficed  to  keep  the  little 
home  together. 

Peggy  did  not  learn  this  all  at  once,  but  she 
gathered  the  general  position  of  things  before 
the  evening  was  over.  Supper  was  at  half  past 
seven  and  was  a  very  simple  little  meal  indeed. 
There  was  some  hot  soup,  a  cold  chicken  and 
salad,  and  an  apple  tart  with  cream.  No  one 
drank  anything  but  water,  and  after  supper  Mary 
vanished  and  returned  with  some  cups  of  coffee 
on  a  tray.  At  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  re- 
past Mr.  Morford  said  a  Latin  grace,  and  he  and 
his  son  and  daughter  crossed  themselves. 

They  rose  from  table  and  Mr.  Morford  in- 
vited Peter  to  come  and  smoke  in  the  study. 
Rather  to  her  surprise,  Frederick  Morford  did 
not  accompany  them,  but  joined  his  sister  and 
Peggy  in  the  little  morning-room  where  Mary 
worked.  Peggy  soon  saw  the  reason  for  this,  for 


32  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Mary's  tasks  were  not  yet  ended  and  she  had 
still  to  help  the  little  servant  to  clear  away  the 
meal  and  put  the  things  away.  Frederick  had 
come  with  them  so  that  Peggy  might  not  be  left 
alone. 

She  felt  curiously  timid  and  shy  in  his  pres- 
ence, and  his  taciturnity  increased  her  own  dis- 
position to  silence.  This  world  was  so  unlike 
her  own  that  she  seemed  scarcely  to  speak  the 
same  language.  No  effort  of  will  or  of  imagina- 
tion could  bring  it  into  line  with  the  sumptuous 
standards  that  prevailed  at  Mildon. 

Frederick  Morford  regarded  her  for  a  mo- 
ment intently  and  then  said  abruptly: 

"I  thought  I  saw  you  at  Benediction.  You 
were  there,  were  you  not?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peggy,  and  then  she  added  with 
an  almost  desperate  courage,  "I  didn't  under- 
stand it  at  all." 

"You'd  never  been  before?"  said  Frederick. 
She  had  the  feeling  that  he  was  not  really  in- 
terested, that  he  was  bored  at  having  to  talk 
to  her  and  entertain  her  until  his  sister  had  fin- 
ished her  work,  and  that  he  was  simply  making 
conversation. 

"Never,"  she  answered;  "I  suppose  you  will 
think  it  very  strange  of  me,  but  it  was  the  first 
time  I  had  ever  been  inside  a  Catholic  Church." 

"I  do  not  think  it  at  all  strange,"  said  Fred- 
erick Morford  slowly ;  "y°u  are  not  a  Catholic- 
why  should  you  go?" 

Peggy's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  ground  as  if 
she  were  examining  intently  the  old-fashioned, 
faded  garlands  of  roses  that  decorated  the  worn 


THE  REST  HOUSE  33 

carpet.  This  man  knew  the  explanation  of  those 
mysterious  things  which  she  had  heard  and  seen 
that  evening  and  which  had  puzzled  and  con- 
fused her.  He  knew  all  that  she  wished  to  know. 
Had  he  found  those  answers,  those  explanations, 
sufficient  ? 

With  a  great  effort  she  said: 

"I — I  liked  it."  Her  tone  was  low  and 
troubled  and  held  an  appeal  that  was  not  lost 
upon  Frederick.  "It  has  made  me  wish  to  go 
again.  To  learn—  She  stopped  short,  afraid 
that  she  had  said  too  much.  And  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  go  on  and  tell  this  stranger  those 
intimate  thoughts  and  aspirations  that  had  been 
hers  to-night. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  he  said 
in  a  tone  of  cold  politeness.  "So  many  people 
are  impossibly  prejudiced.  And  no  wonder,  con- 
sidering all  the  things  they  are  taught  to  believe 
about  us — against  us!" 

Something  in  his  tone,  although  it  was  so  little 
encouraging,  made  it  easier  for  her  to  speak. 

"And  yet  my  first  wish  was  to  get  up  and  run 
away — to  forget — to  set  myself  free." 

Frederick's  face  became  suddenly  serious.  He 
looked  at  Peggy  with  black,  scowling  eyes. 

"Free?"  he  repeated,  with  an  almost  violent 
emphasis. 

"Yes,  free.  As  though  there  was  something 
there  that  wished  to  hold  me — to  imprison  me. 
Haven't  you  ever  felt  that?  Or  perhaps  there 
is  no  need  for  you  to  feel  it  because  you  may 
have  always  been  a  Catholic!" 

"Yes,  I  have  always  been  one,"  said  Frederick 


34  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Morford  slowly.  "But  although  I  have  always 
been  one,  I  think  I  understand  what  you  mean. 
It  binds  one — it  holds  one.  You  are  free  yet  you 
are  always  fettered.  Because  you  are  a  Cath- 
olic you  must  obey  and  submit." 

There  was  an  indescribable  harshness  in  his 
tone  as  he  said  these  words.  He  was  not  even 
sure  yet  whether  Peggy  was  interrogating  him 
from  sheer  idle  curiosity  or  whether  she  was 
only  showing  the  sympathetic  interest  of  the 
polite  and  conventional  visitor.  He  did  not  wish 
to  talk  to  her  of  intimate  spiritual  things,  be- 
cause he  was  uncertain  of  the  motive  which 
prompted  her  to  question  him,  and  also  because 
of  that  British  reticence  which  forbids  a  man 
to  speak  easily  and  naturally  of  things  that  are 
dear  to  his  heart. 

Frederick  Morford  had  had  all  the  advantages, 
perhaps,  too,  some  of  the  temporal  disadvan- 
tages, of  a  strictly  Catholic  training.  His  mother 
had  been  a  very  pious  woman  and  Frederick  had 
adored  her.  She  had  loved  him  very  tenderly, 
and  there  had  been  an  almost  passionate  sym- 
pathy between  them.  He  had  been  sent  as  a 
boy  to  Catholic  schools  where  priests  had  con- 
tinued the  training  he  had  received  at  home.  At 
nineteen  he  had  obtained  the  very  reluctant  con- 
sent of  his  parents  to  enter  the  army.  They 
had  not  wished  for  that  life  for  their  only  son; 
they  feared  that  contact  with  the  world  at  such 
an  early  age  would  diminish  and  impair  the  fine 
flame  of  faith  that  burned  in  his  heart.  But  he  had 
overruled  their  objections  and  had  subsequently 
obtained  a  commission  in  an  Irish  regiment, 


THE  REST  HOUSE  35 

where  many  of  his  men  were  Catholics.  He  was 
twenty-three  years  old  when  his  mother  fell  ill 
with  that  fatal  ailment  which  a  year  later  caused 
her  death.  The  expenses  of  that  illness  were  very 
great  and  Mr.  Morford  had  to  strain  every  nerve 
to  meet  them.  Finally,  he  was  compelled  to  write 
and  tell  his  son  that  he  could  no  longer  give  him 
the  slender  allowance  with  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  supplement  his  pay.  He  urged  him  to 
retire  from  the  army  and  come  and  live  at  home 
and  look  after  the  farm  until  he  had  found  some 
more  remunerative  employment. 

Frederick  fought  a  hard  battle  with  himself 
after  the  arrival  of  his  father's  letter.  His  pro- 
fession was  very  dear  to  him;  he  was  attached 
alike  to  his  men  and  to  his  brother  officers;  he 
had  just  received  promotion.  To  give  it  all  up 
was  a  sacrifice  which  he  felt  was  too  heavy  to 
be  borne.  But  the  thought  of  his  mother  con- 
quered. He  returned  home,  and  never  a  single 
word  of  remonstrance  or  complaint  was  allowed 
to  pass  his  lips.  When  Sir  Arthur  Denby,  who 
had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  dark,  taciturn  young 
man,  offered  him  the  post  of  land-agent  to  his 
property,  Frederick  accepted  it  at  once.  The 
year  that  followed  was  one  of  sharp  discipline  for 
Frederick  and  Mary,  but  it  made  them  turn  to 
practical  account  their  early  training.  They  had 
to  forego  all  the  natural  pleasures  of  youth. 
There  was  no  leisure  for  Frederick,  and  there 
were  no  pretty  frocks  nor  amusements  for  Mary. 
She  had  to  occupy  herself  ceaselessly  with  nurs- 
ing her  mother  and  the  performance  of  hard, 
distasteful  household  tasks.  But  she  realized  that 


36  THE  REST  HOUSE 

her  brother's  sacrifice  had  been  far  greater  than 
her  own ;  he  had  laid  aside  ambition,  worldly  suc- 
cess, the  prospect  of  future  advancement. 

Six  years  had  passed  since  the  fatal  decision 
had  been  made,  and  in  those  years  Frederick 
had  buried  deep  the  passionate  ambition  of  his 
youth.  He  had  longed  for  fame  and  success; 
duty  had  held  him  in  the  grip  of  a  commonplace 
routine  that  admitted  of  neither  leisure,  nor 
recreation,  nor  study. 

But  he  could  not  speak  of  those  things  to 
Peggy.  The  memory  of  tliem  could  still  stab 
him  with  the  smart  of  an  ancient  wound. 

Peggy  had  risen  now  and  was  standing  in 
front  of  him  with  flushed  cheeks  and  eager,  shin- 
ing eyes 

"Oh,  please — please  tell  me,"  she  was  saying; 
"I  know  nothing  at  all — I  don't  even  know  what 
it  is  you  believe!  I  have  not  even  been  taught 
to  be — as  you  said  just  now — prejudiced.  But 
won't  you  even  tell  me  what  there  was  in  the 
chapel  to-night  to  make  me  feel  so  different — so 
frightened — and  yet  so  happy?  Happy  but  not 
with  an  ordinary  happiness  ..." 

Frederick's  face  hardened,  but  he  motioned 
her  to  a  chair. 

"Will  you  sit  down?"  he  said.  "I  am  not  at  all 
the  person  to  instruct  you.  I  have  never  in- 
structed any  one  in  my  life.  If  you  want  to 
know  about  these  things,  you  ought  to  consult 
a  priest." 

Peggy  sat  down  obediently,  and  clasped  her 
hands  with  a  little  nervous  gesture  of  suppli- 
cation and  entreaty. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  37 

"I  shall  go  home  to-morrow,"  she  said,  "and 
perhaps  I  shall  never  have  another  opportunity 
of  asking  any  one.  I  am  quite  certain  about  one 
thing — they  would  never  let  me  talk  to  a  priest. 
So  won't  you  please  tell  me — because  I  may 
never  have  the  chance  to  ask  any  one  again?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  can,"  said  Frederick  re- 
luctantly. 

When  he  had  finished  speaking,  encouraged, 
perhaps,  by  the  dark,  shining  eyes,  by  her  very 
attitude,  unconscious  though  it  was,  of  hanging 
upon  his  very  words ;  flattered,  too,  by  the  almost 
violent  attention  she  had  offered,  Frederick  was 
satisfied  that  he  must  have  lifted  the  veil  of  Cath- 
olic mystery  and  shown  her  at  least  certain  fun- 
damental truths.  It  was  like  teaching  a  perfectly 
ignorant  child — like  scattering  seed  on  a  virgin 
soil.  Frederick's  faith  was  very  dear  and  sacred 
to  him,  and  he  disliked  speaking  of  it  with  all 
the  intensity  of  a  naturally  reticent  man.  But 
there  had  been  something  about  Peggy's  appeal 
that  had  insensibly  touched  him.  He  did  not 
wish  to  talk  to  her  in  this  way,  but  she  had 
simply  forced  the  situation  upon  him.  And  as  he 
went  on,  warming,  perhaps,  a  little  to  his  task 
and  using  even  a  certain  eloquence,  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  change  in  Peggy  herself.  Her  face 
had  become  very  pale;  her  eyes  were  dark  and 
somber  almost  as  his  own.  She  looked  exhausted 
and  spent,  like  a  flower  in  a  storm. 

When  he  had  finished  speaking  she  said  breath- 
lessly: 

"Are  you  sure  that  it  is  true?" 


38 

"I  am  quite  sure,"  said  Frederick. 

"Do  you  think  that  is  why  I  felt  so  strange — 
so  different — when  I  was  in  the  chapel?" 

"I  think  you  are  probably  very  impression- 
able— and  I  have  heard  of  impressionable  people 
being  affected  in  that  way  the  first  time  they 
enter  a  Catholic  church,  and  find  themselves  in 
the  presence  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament." 

She  stood  up,  and  again  he  was  struck  by  that 
look  of  almost  physical  weakness  in  her. 

"Please  take  me  back  to  the  chapel,"  she  said. 

Frederick  rose  and  led  the  way  down  the  long 
passage  and  back  to  the  door  hidden  behind  the 
red  curtain.  Peggy  put  on  the  veil  that  she  had 
worn  before  and  going  into  the  chapel,  closed  the 
door  softly  behind  her. 

She  could  hear  Frederick's  footsteps  echoing 
as  he  went  back  along  the  passage. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  WAS  nearly  midnight  when  Mary  came  down 
the  passage  and  opened  the  door  of  the  chapel. 
All  the  rest  of  the  little  household  had  long  since 
retired  to  rest,  and  she  had  only  waited  up  to  see 
if  Peggy  would  require  any  assistance.  She 
rightly  divined  that  the  girl  was  accustomed  to 
the  services  of  a  skilful  maid,  so  perfect  and 
dainty  was  all  her  apparel. 

At  the  door  Mary  paused.  Peggy  was  still 
kneeling  there,  a  rapt  and  motionless  figure. 
Mary  wondered  at  first  if  the  girl  had  fallen 
asleep,  so  still  and  unmoving  was  she. 

She  stepped  forward  and  laid  her  hand  very 
softly  on  her  shoulder. 

"It  is  very  late,  Miss  Metcalfe.  Don't  you 
think  you  had  better  come  up  to  bed?  And  it 
is  cold  for  you  here." 

Peggy  lifted  her  face,  and  looked  at  Mary 
almost  as  ii  she  did  not  see  her.  There  was  a 
curious,  almost  vacant  expression  in  her  eyes. 

"I  came  to  fetch  you,"  said  Mary  rather  in- 
sistently; "I  thought  you  might  have  forgotten 
how  late  it  was.  You  ought  to  have  a  good 
night's  rest." 

"Please  let  me  stay,"  said  Peggy.  "And  please 
don't  sit  up  for  me.  I  shall  be  quite  all  right." 

"But — my  dear — I  think  you  really  ought  to 
go  to  bed,"  said  Mary  in  a  tone  of  mild  re- 
monstrance. 

Peggy  shook  her  head. 
39 


40  THE  REST  HOUSE 

"There's  only  to-night,"  she  said;  "to-morrow 
we  shall  have  to  go  home.  You  mustn't  ask  me 
to  come  away." 

Mary  hesitated.  Peggy  was  very  young  and 
she  looked  delicate.  She  looked,  too,  as  if  she 
were  utterly  unaccustomed  to  anything  in  the 
shape  of  physical  hardship.  Mary  was  afraid 
of  the  consequences  for  her  of  a  night  spent  in 
the  chilly  atmosphere  of  the  chapel. 

But  there  was  something  in  those  words,  "You 
mustn't  ask  me  to  come  away,"  that  did  most 
forcibly  impress  her,  and  made  her  even  stop  and 
ask  herself  whether  she  had  any  right  to  try  to 
persuade  Peggy  to  leave  the  chapel  and  go  up- 
stairs to  bed.  It  was  impossible  to  consult  any 
one  else  at  such  a  late  hour  about  the  wisest 
course  to  pursue  so  Mary  had  to  decide  for  her- 
self. She  bent  down  and  said  quietly: 

"Good-night,  Miss  Metcalfe.  I  won't  ask  you 
to  come  away  if  you  prefer  to  remain.  But  if 
you  want  anything,  please  come  and  knock  at 
my  door." 

"Good-night,  and  thank  you,"  said  Peggy 
simply. 

She  was  still  kneeling  there  when  at  half  past 
six  on  the  following  morning  the  priest  came  in 
to  say  Mass.  The  Morfords  and  their  servant 
had  already  assembled  in  the  chapel,  but  only 
Mary  knew  that  Peggy  had  been  there  all  night. 

For  the  first  time  she  was  present  at  the  Holy 
Sacrifice.  She  felt  again  something  of  the  per- 
plexity and  bewilderment  she  had  experienced 
at  Benediction  on  the  previous  night,  together 


THE  REST  HOUSE  41 

with  an  irritating  sense  of  ignorance  and  a  for- 
lorn desire  to  learn.  But  she  was  no  longer 
completely  ignorant,  although  she  failed  to  fol- 
low any  part  of  the  Mass.  Frederick  had  told 
her  certain  facts,  and  above  all  he  had  told  Who 
was  present  in  the  Blessed  Sacrament  of  the 
Altar.  It  was  that  mystical  knowledge  and  her 
own  immediate,  unquestioning  acceptance  of  its 
truth  that  had  held  Peggy  so  fast  a  prisoner  all 
through  the  chilly  darkness  of  the  winter  night. 
In  her  long  vigil  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  faith 
had  sunk  very  deeply  into  her  heart,  bestowing 
upon  it  a  wistful  desire  to  know  more.  Once 
or  twice  the  physical  hardship,  the  bitter  cold,  a 
feeling  of  sickness  and  exhaustion  had  threat- 
ened to  conquer  and  make  her  seek  the  rest  which 
her  tired  and  exhausted  body  so  imperiously  de- 
manded. But  some  more  powerful  influence  had 
triumphed  and  held  her,  as  it  were,  transfixed — 
and  adoring. 

For  the  first  time  she  realized  that  those 
strange  dissatisfactions  that  had  pressed  upon 
her  heavily  from  time  to  time  in  her  home-life 
were  of  spiritual  origin.  All  the  ease  and  luxury 
of  that  life  had  contributed  to  the  comfort  and 
well-being  of  her  body,  feeding  it  with  delicate 
food,  clothing  it  in  soft  and  dainty  apparel, 
shielding  it  from  extremes  of  heat  and  cold, 
avoiding  for  it  all  fatigue  and  preventable  pain. 
And  through  it  all  she  had  been  conscious  of  a 
feeling  that  was  like  privation  and  starvation, 
not  knowing  that  it  was  because  her  own  spir- 
itual needs  were  being  suffered  to  perish  and 
atrophy.  There  was  nothing  in  the  Sunday 


42  THE  REST  HOUSE 

church-going  to  satisfy  those  needs.  The  long 
sermon,  the  interminable  hymns  had  always  been 
something  of  a  weariness  to  the  flesh  in  Peggy's 
eyes.  There  are  always  souls  educated  in  Prot- 
estantism whose  inherited  needs  seek  for  the 
privileges  of  which  they  have  been  deprived.  But 
steeped  also  in  inherited  ignorance,  they  scarcely 
know  what  it  is  they  seek,  nor  what  Bread  it  is 
for  which  they  hunger. 

Peggy  knew  that  whatever  the  future  might 
hold  for  her,  she  had  crossed  a  definite  bridge 
in  the  journey  of  the  soul  during  that  night  spent 
in  the  lonely  little  Somersetshire  chapel.  In  her 
mind  the  adventure  which  had  brought  her 
hither  seemed  to  acquire  a  new  and  almost  violent 
significance.  She  felt  almost  as  if  she  had  been 
seized,  arrested,  compelled  to  stay  and  learn. 
And  most  strange  of  all  was  the  remembrance 
of  that  awakening  voice  which  had  aroused  her 
and  called  "Come." 

Peggy  looked  up.  Mass  was  over,  and  the 
priest  with  covered  chalice  was  leaving  the 
chapel. 

"Oh,  I  will  come — I  will  come!"  she  said  as  if 
in  answer. 

As  she  uttered  the  words  she  felt  that  she  had 
made  a  promise  that  held  all  the  passionate 
solemnity  of  a  vow.  She  could  not  imagine  why 
she  had  spoken  the  words  aloud,  nor  why,  indeed, 
she  had  uttered  them  at  all.  It  was  as  if  they 
had  been  evoked  by  the  very  experience  through 
which  she  had  passed,  as  well  as  by  the  offering 
of  those  sacred  mysteries  which  she  still  so  im- 
perfectly understood. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  43 

Now  when  Mary  came  to  fetch  her  with  gentle 
insistence  Peggy  obeyed  without  demur.  She 
suffered  herself  to  be  led  upstairs  to  the  bedroom 
which  had  been  prepared  for  her  the  night  before. 
The  bed  was  untouched,  and  Peggy's  own  gar- 
ments, dried  and  folded,  lay  on  a  chair.  Already 
there  was  a  fire  blazing  on  the  hearth.  She  sud- 
denly realized  how  dreadfully  tired  she  was ;  she 
felt,  indeed,  almost  light-headed  from  exhaustion. 
But  a  new  sense  of  happiness  and  peace  and 
deep  contentment  informed  her  mind.  Mary 
helped  her  into  bed  and  brought  her  some  toast 
and  hot  coffee.  And  then  Peggy  fell  asleep. 

It  was  still  snowing  heavily  when  she  awoke 
and  Mary  came  to  urge  her  to  remain  in  bed 
until  it  was  time  to  get  up  for  luncheon,  telling 
her,  too,  that  her  brother  had  decided  not  to 
attempt  to  start  on  the  return  journey  till  later  in 
the  day.  Peggy  was  so  tired  that  she  was  de- 
cidedly relieved  to  hear  of  this  decision,  and  she 
slept  most  of  the  morning  as  if  to  make  up  for 
those  hours  of  voluntary  vigil.  She  did  not  allude 
to  them  in  speaking  to  Mary;  indeed,  she  felt  a 
little  ashamed  of  having  done  such  an  uncon- 
ventional and  perhaps  exaggerated  thing.  She 
wondered  if  Frederick  Morford  had  been  told 
about  it,  and  whether  he  thought  her  very  fool- 
ish and  impressionable.  What  troubled  her  most 
of  all  was  the  feeling  that  if  the  incident  came 
to  Peter's  ears  he  would  be  little  likely  to  under- 
stand or  sympathize.  She  was  even  a  little  afraid 
that  he  might  ridicule  the  whole  thing.  She  hoped 
they  would  not  mention  it  to  Peter. 


44  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Peter  was  inclined  to  be  bored  in  his  present 
surroundings,  though  grateful  for  the  shelter 
they  had  afforded  him.  He  had  spent  most  of 
the  morning  in  the  old  coach-house  and  had 
patched  up  the  car  so  that  it  was  now  in  a  going 
condition  and  very  little  the  worse  for  its  ad- 
venture. He  had  also  trudged  off  through  the 
snow  and  sent  another  telegram  to  the  anxious 
Olympians  at  Mildon. 

Then  he  came  indoors  and  smoked  and  read 
until  Peggy  appeared  just  before  luncheon  time. 
Secretly  he  wondered  how  Frederick  Morford, 
who  was  only  a  few  years  older  than  himself, 
could  endure  life  in  such  dull  and  desolate  sur- 
roundings. Newspapers  at  the  best  of  times 
came  a  day  late,  and  to-day  they  did  not  come 
at  all,  because  it  was  impossible  for  the  postman 
to  make  the  journey  through  the  snow.  No  one 
seemed  in  the  least  degree  perturbed  at  this  de- 
privation, and  he  was  obliged  to  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  happenings  of  the  outside 
world  were  of  small  importance  to  the  little 
household.  Peter  wondered  at  their  apparent 
contentment.  It  would  have  made  life  easier  had 
they  possessed  a  motor  to  get  about  in,  but  he 
discovered  that  Frederick  invariably  rode,  and 
that  if  any  one  were  going  away  and  wished  to 
drive  to  the  station,  a  rough  cart  to  which  one 
of  the  farm  horses  was  harnessed  provided  the 
only  available  conveyance. 

"But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  we  hardly  ever  go 
away,"  said  Mary.  "My  father  goes  to  London 
perhaps  once  a  year,  but  I  have  not  been  there 
since  I  was  a  child.  Indeed,  I  hardly  remember 


THE  REST  HOUSE  45 

it.  Frederick  sometimes  stays  with  a  friend 
when  he  gets  a  week's  holiday,  but  that  isn't  very 
often,  poor  boy." 

There  was,  indeed,  but  little  money  for  pleas- 
ure-trips and  excursions  to  London  or  the  sea- 
side. Mary  had  spent  practically  all  her  life  in 
the  remote  Somersetshire  village.  She  had  read 
a  good  deal  and  was  well  informed,  but  she  was 
utterly  without  experience  of  life.  She  had  none 
of  the  distractions  that  belong  to  youth,  and 
perhaps  scarcely  realized  their  existence  suffi- 
ciently to  desire  them.  Peggy's  clothes,  which 
she  had  taken  down  to  be  dried  last  night,  had 
filled  her  with  actual  amazement.  The  delicate, 
filmy  garments  of  daintiest  batiste  and  lace 
threaded  with  blue  satin  ribbons,  the  silk  stock- 
ings and  silken  petticoat,  the  fine  vest  of  Indian 
gauze  were  things  outside  of  all  her  imagining. 
That  a  young  girl  should  possess  them  filled  her 
with  wonder.  She  realized  that  Peggy  must  be 
the  child  of  very  rich  parents,  and  that  she  had 
been  brought  up  in  circumstances  of  great  lux- 
ury. Every  detail  was  so  perfect,  as  if  it  were 
the  result  of  the  greatest  care  and  attention. 

"Are  you  the  only  daughter,  Miss  Metcalfe?" 
she  asked  later  in  the  day  when  she  and  Peggy 
were  sitting  over  the  fire  in  the  morning-room. 

"Oh,  no.  I  have  two  sisters,  but  they  are  both 
married  now,"  said  Peggy.  "I  am  the  youngest." 
She  added  after  a  pause,  "Diana  is  Lady  Mad- 
dinard  and  Beatrice  is  Lady  Charsley.  They 
have  been  married  some  years — they  were  both 
married  on  the  same  day.  Diana  has  two  chil- 
dren now  and  Beatrice  has  three." 


46  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Mary  was  knitting  some  woollen  socks,  for  it 
was  an  impossibility  for  her  to  sit  in  idleness  even 
when  she  was  entertaining  a  guest.  There  was 
always  too  much  to  be  done  for  her  to  think  of 
leisure.  Peggy  watched  the  quick,  deft  move- 
ments of  her  hands  as  the  steel  needles  gleamed 
in  the  firelight.  From  them  she  fell  to  examining 
the  hands  themselves.  Mary  wore  no  rings,  and 
her  hands  were  reddened  and  a  little  roughened 
and  thickened,  too,  by  hard  work.  It  was  the 
color  and  texture  of  them  that  struck  Peggy 
more  than  the  actual  shape  and  made  her  sud- 
denly compare  them  with  her  own.  The  next 
moment  she  felt  ashamed  of  having  done  this— 
almost  as  ashamed  as  if  Mary  had  been  able  to 
read  her  thoughts.  Peggy's  own  hands  were 
small  and  white  and  fragile-looking  and  she  wore 
on  the  right  one  a  diamond  ring  which  she  had 
been  given  a  few  weeks  before  on  her  twentieth 
birthday.  Her  hands  were  cared  for  and  beauti- 
fully manicured ;  each  nail  was  polished  till  it  re- 
sembled a  pink  shell.  But  when  she  looked  at 
Mary's  she  realized  how  useless  her  hands  were 
in  comparison.  Much  of  the  comfort  and  care 
which  had  surrounded  her  during  the  past  twenty 
hours  had  been  due  to  Mary's  initiative  and  en- 
ergy. She  had  done  all  sorts  of  little  services 
for  Peggy,  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  although 
at  Mildon  such  things  would  have  been  per- 
formed exclusively  by  one  of  the  maids.  Peggy 
saw,  too,  that  Mary  was  wearing  a  blouse  of  dark 
blue  flannel  that  had  evidently  been  washed  many 
times,  for  it  had  shrunk  and  the  wrists  were  too 
small.  Clothes  formed  a  very  important  part  of 


THE  REST  HOUSE  47 

life  at  Mildon.  Peggy  had  an  extremely  large 
allowance  for  a  young  girl,  although  she  did  not 
know  that  it  was  unusually  large.  If  she  were 
not  perfectly  tidy,  or  if  she  wore  anything  that 
was  not  quite  fresh  or  at  all  shrunken  or  shabby, 
Lady  Metcalfe  would  be  certain  to  make  a  few 
appropriate  remarks  upon  her  slack  ways. 
Peggy  rather  disliked  the  trouble  of  buying  new 
clothes  and  she  had  no  feminine  love  for  "shop- 
ping." But  the  blouse  she  was  wearing  now 
was  a  very  pretty  one ;  it  was  fashioned  of  thick, 
creamy,  white  silk  cut  open  at  the  throat.  The 
long  sleeves  ended  at  the  wrists  with  little  white 
frills  that  made  Peggy's  hands  look  even  whiter 
and  smaller  than  they  really  were.  It  was  a 
simple  but  dainty  garment  and  was  one  of  sev- 
eral she  had  bought  for  her  visit  to  Lavender. 
The  skirt  she  was  wearing  was  of  fine  dark  blue 
cloth.  Mary  felt  that  it  must  have  cost  a  great 
deal.  While  Peggy's  clothes  were  a  revelation 
to  her,  she  felt  no  envy  of  them.  She  was  per- 
fectly satisfied  with  her  lot. 

"I  am  afraid  you  would  find  life  at  the  Rest 
House  dull  if  you  were  to  stay  here  long,"  she 
said  presently,  laying  aside  her  knitting  for  a 
moment  in  order  to  give  the  fire  a  poke. 

"The  Rest  House?"  said  Peggy;  "is  that  its 
name?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary;  "there's  a  little  story  con- 
nected with  that.  My  grandfather,  who  bought 
it,  was  once  traveling  in  Ceylon  and  he  fell  ill 
and  was  taken  to  the  nearest  rest-house,  as  they 
call  the  dak-bungalows  there.  He  had  only  a 
native  servant  to  look  after  him,  and  there  was 


48  THE  REST  HOUSE 

no  doctor  within  reach.  The  only  European  was 
a  Catholic  priest,  who  was  also  staying  there,  and 
who  nursed  him  most  devotedly  through  a  dan- 
gerous illness.  It  was  owing  to  him  that  my 
grandfather  became  a  Catholic,  and  he  resolved 
that  when  he  came  back  to  settle  in  England 
he  would  call  his  home  the  Rest  House.  I  am 
glad  you  like  the  name,"  she  added  thoughtfully. 
"We  like  it  because  it  commemorates  the  cir- 
cumstances which  brought  my  father's  family 
into  the  Church.  My  mother  belonged  to  a  fam- 
ily that  has  always  been  Catholic." 

Peggy  could  not  fail  to  be  struck  by  the  sim- 
plicity with  which  Mary  spoke  of  their  religion. 
It  seemed,  indeed,  a  thing  so  inseparable  from 
their  daily  lives,  impregnating  their  goings  out 
and  their  comings  in,  that  it  would  have  been 
almost  impossible  not  to  allude  to  it. 

Presently  Peter  looked  in. 

"It's  thawing  hard,"  he  said,  "and  I  think  after 
all  we'd  better  push  off  this  afternoon.  We  can 
get  as  far  as  Coldford  and  take  the  evening  train 
to  town."  He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  unusual  de- 
cision. 

Peggy  looked  a  trifle  disappointed.  She  had 
so  hoped  to  remain  one  more  day — to  be  present 
once  more  at  Benediction  and  Mass.  But  she  felt 
the  impossibility  of  giving  such  reasons  as  these 
to  Peter.  She  knew,  too,  that  it  was  for  the  sake 
of  these  people  who  had  been  so  hospitable  that 
he  was  determined  to  go  away,  far  he  did  not  wish 
to  trespass  longer  upon  their  kindness. 

"Oh,  Peter;  I  am  sorry."    She  glanced  regret- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  49 

fully  at  Mary.  "But  if  you  really  think  we  had 
better " 

"I've  made  inquiries  and  I  hear  the  road's 
pretty  good  between  here  and  Coldford.  Any- 
how, we'll  make  a  bid  for  it." 

He  went  out  of  the  room  and  Mary  rose. 

"Then  you  shall  have  an  early  tea  before  you 
go,"  she  said,  and  departed  to  superintend  the 
preparation  of  that  meal.  She  had  not  been  gone 
very  long  before  Frederick  came  in.  He  had  evi- 
dently been  out,  for  he  still  wore  his  rough  riding- 
clothes  and  his  boots  were  muddy. 

He  drew  a  chair  up  close  to  the  fire  and  sat 
down  opposite  to  Peggy,  who  felt  suddenly  con- 
strained and  shy  in  his  presence. 

"Well,"  he  said  almost  roughly,  "are  you  very 
tired?" 

The  ruddy  firelight  deepened  the  flush  that 
overspread  Peggy's  pale  face. 

"I'm  quite  rested  now,  thank  you."  But  there 
was  something  in  the  little  delicate  droop  of  her 
slight  figure  that  still  suggested  fatigue  and  ex- 
haustion. Why,  she  had  not  the  strength  of  a 
mouse ! 

Frederick  felt  a  wholesome  contempt  for  the 
very  type  to  which  Peggy  belonged.  A  woman 
who  was  incapable  of  doing  the  simplest  womanly 
tasks — who  had  certainly  never  done  an  hour's 
honest  work  in  her  life ! 

Perhaps,  too,  there  was  a  touch  of  resentment 
that  she  should  have  so  much,  while  Mary,  with 
her  heart  of  gold,  her  patience,  her  unwearying 
unselfishness  should  have  so  little. 


50  THE  REST  HOUSE 

"What  on  earth  made  you  do  it?"  he  inquired, 
and  now  there  was  no  little  animosity  in  his  voice. 
He  felt  so  convinced  that  she  was  merely  a  spoiled 
child  in  search  of  a  new  sensation. 

His  powerful  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  and 
Peggy,  meeting  them,  thought  she  could  read  in 
them  both  impatience  and  contempt.  They  had 
the  mysterious  expression  which  very  dark  eyes 
so  often  have,  as  of  some  secret  contained  in  their 
very  shadows.  And  they  were  fanatical  eyes,  too, 
in  a  sense,  as  the  eyes  of  a  very  devout  Catholic— 
especially  one  who  has  made  heavy  sacrifices— 
often  are.  Peggy  shrank  before  that  steady, 
searching,  almost  fierce  gaze. 

"Do  what?"  she  said  weakly. 

"Stay  in  the  chapel  all  night,"  said  Frederick 
Morford,  "as  Mary  tells  me  you  did." 

"After  what  you  told  me  I  felt  that  I  must," 
said  Peggy  simply. 

Not  one  of  Peter's  friends  who  came  sometimes 
to  stay  at  Mildon  would  ever  have  dared  address 
her  thus. 

"It  was  an  exaggerated  sort  of  thing  to  do," 
declared  Morford. 

He  wanted  passionately  to  probe  for  her  real 
reason  and  he  did  not  greatly  care  whether  he 
hurt  her  in  the  process  or  not. 

"Was  it?"  Her  voice  faltered  over  the  words, 
and  she  clenched  her  hands  together  with  a  ner- 
vous effort  at  self-control. 

"Do  you  generally  allow  yourself  to  be  so  in- 
fluenced by  what  strangers  say  to  you?" 

Last  night  he  had  seemed  more  kind  if  a  trifle 
bored  by  her  insistent  questioning.  Yet  he  had 


THE  REST  HOUSE  51 

given  in,  and  had  answered  her,  though  with  evi- 
dent reluctance.  But  to-day  he  looked  stern  and 
almost  scornful,  as  if  he  had  not  approved  of  her 
action.  Her  pride  was  touched. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said  with  a  little  touch  of 
hauteur.  "I  see  so  few  strangers  and  I  have 
never  talked  to  any  one  on  this  subject  before. 
And,  of  course,  I  have  never  done  anything  like 
this  before." 

"Will  you  tell  me  why  you  did  it?"  he  asked 
abruptly. 

Peggy  looked  down  at  the  floor,  at  the  gar- 
lands of  faded  roses  on  the  worn  Brussels  carpet. 
She  did  not  speak. 

"Will  you  tell  me?"  he  repeated  insistently. 
"You  really  must  have  had  some  reason  for  doing 
anything  so — so  extraordinary!" 

"I  wanted  to  stay  there  with  the  Blessed  Sac- 
rament," she  said  at  last  in  a  tremulous,  nervous 
voice.  (He  sincerely  hoped  that  she  was  not 
going  to  cry!)  "I  was  very  tired  and  cold — you 
mustn't  think  I  didn't  feel  these  things.  My 
body  didn't  want  to  stay  there  after  the  first  little 
while.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  any  hardship.  It 
was  a  hardship.  But  I  found  something  precious 
— something  I  had  never  dreamed  of.  I — I 
couldn't  go  away.  You  must  not  think  I  was 
praying — I  do  not  think  I  said  any  prayers  at 
all." 

So  far  she  seemed  perfectly  sincere.  Indeed, 
there  was  something  guileless  and  childlike  in  the 
way  she  made  these  admissions.  They  touched 
Frederick  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Perhaps  you  are  not  aware  that  there  are 


52  THE  REST  HOUSE 

nuns  in  certain  convents  who  take  it  in  turns  to 
watch  like  that,  day  and  night?  They  call  it 
Perpetual  Adoration." 

"I  have  never  heard  of  them,"  said  Peggy, 
deeply  interested,  "but  I  think  they  must  be  very 
happy,"  she  added  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"Yes,  they  are  happy,"  said  Frederick;  "they 
have  chosen  that  life  of  poverty  and  submission 
and  complete  self-denial.  It  is  not  an  easy  life. 
It  entails  a  crucifixion  of  the  flesh  which  only  the 
grace  of  God  can  make  possible." 

If  only  Father  Denis  had  not  been  too  ill  to- 
day to  see  and  speak  to  Peggy !  He  was  suffer- 
ing from  a  violent  attack  of  asthma  and  could 
scarcely  breathe. 

Suddenly  Peggy  said: 

"Before  I  went  down  to  Benediction,  when  I 
was  asleep — or  nearly  asleep — in  your  sister's 
room,  I  was  aroused  by  hearing  a  voice  very  close 
to  me  calling  'Come.'  I  am  sure  I  could  not  have 
imagined  it,  for  it  was  so  loud  that  it  woke  me 
up  completely.  At  first  I  thought  it  was  your 
sister  calling.  And  all  night — "  she  paused. 

"Yes?  All  night?"  said  Morford,  with  a  touch 
of  impatience. 

"All  night  I  felt  that  I  was  obeying — answer- 
ing. I  told  you  that  I  did  not  pray,  but  if  I  said 
any  words  they  were  these,  'I  will  come,  I  will 


come.' 


If  she  expected  him  to  administer  another 
cold  douche  of  his  contempt  upon  these  fanciful 
imaginings  she  was  destined  now  to  disappoint- 
ment. For  Frederick  Morford  rose  from  his  seat 
and  moved  restlessly  a  few  paces  down  the  room, 


THE  REST  HOUSE  53 

away  from  her,  his  face  averted.  Then  he  turned 
and  faced  her,  looking  flown  upon  her  from  his 
great  height.  His  face  was  hard,  but  there  was 
an  expression  in  it  that  she  failed  to  understand. 
At  last  he  said  in  a  voice  that  held  something  of 
emotion  in  spite  of  its  harshness : 

"Be  true  to  that  promise,  Miss  Metcalfe!  If 
that  is  why  you  were  brought  here  yesterday — 
for  God  has  a  thousand  ways  of  bringing  His 
own  into  the  fold — may  His  Holy  Name  be 
praised!  If  you  ever  find  it  is  your  duty — quite 
clearly  your  duty  to  God  to  become  a  Catholic, 
I  hope  you  will  not  hesitate.  I  hope  you  will  not 
disobey  that  first  call!  I  don't  know  what  your 
position  is  nor  what  your  circumstances  are,  but 
I  imagine  that  your  people  are  rich,  that  you  have 
all  you  want  of  this  world's  goods.  And  you  may 
find  hindrances  in  your  path.  And  you  look  so 
weak!"  The  old  note  of  disdain  was  in  his  voice 
now.  "Some  people  would  do  anything  rather 
than  forfeit  their  own  soft  physical  ease!" 

His  strange  words  moved  her  profoundly  even 
while  the  harshness  of  his  manner  repelled  and 
even  hurt  her.  But  she  looked  up  with  brave, 
serene  eyes  that  made  Morf  ord  wonder  what  kind 
of  pilgrim  soul  this  was  that  fate  had  flung  so 
carelessly  across  his  path. 

"What  does  one  do  to  become  a  Catholic?"  she 
asked  simply.  "I  do  not  know  anything  at  all. 
But  I  feel  that  in  some  way  I  became  one  last 
night." 

"You  have  to  learn,"  he  answered;  "when  the 
time  comes — if  it  ever  comes — you  must  go  to 
some  priest  for  instruction.  When  he  thinks  you 


54  THE  REST  HOUSE 

are  ready  he  will  receive  you.  There  is  nothing 
very  difficult  if  you  are  in  earnest.  The  diffi- 
culties come  afterward,  when  you  have  to  spend 
the  whole  of  the  rest  of  your  life  in  conformity 
to  the  grace  you  have  received,  to  the  dispositions 
of  the  Divine  Will.  You  will  find  there  is  nothing 
so  trivial  in  your  daily  life  that  religion  does  not 
touch  it.  The  most  harmless,  the  most  innocent 
things  in  themselves  may  become  dangerous  to 
you  if  they  come,  even  ever  so  little,  between  you 
and  the  Divine  Will  of  God." 

He  left  the  room  and  presently  returned  with 
two  little  worn  and  shabby  books,  which  he  gave 
to  her.  Peggy  glanced  at  the  titles.  One  was 
the  "Imitation,"  and  the  other  was  "The  Garden 
of  the  SouL" 

"Will  you  keep  these  and  read  them?"  he  said. 
"I  am  afraid  they  are  very  shabby,  but  their  con- 
tents are  as  good  as  ever." 

"Oh,  thank  you/'  said  Peggy,  flushing.  She 
made  a  step  toward  the  door.  Something  seemed 
to  tell  her  that  the  interview  ought  now  to  be 
closed.  She  felt  exhausted,  as  if  she  had  passed 
through  a  strenuous  hour.  "I  will  go  to  the 
chapel  now  until  Peter  is  ready.  Perhaps  your 
sister  will  fetch  me  when  he  is  ready  to  start." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THEY  left  the  Rest  House  at  three  o'clock, 
when  the  pale  wintry  sun  was  dipping 
westward  in  that  opaque  scarlet  glow  that  har- 
monizes so  well  with  a  wintry  landscape  of  snow 
and  ice.  The  thaw  had  set  in  rapidly,  and  great 
lumps  of  snow  fell  heavily  upon  the  top  of  the 
car  as  they  passed  under  the  branches  of  over- 
hanging trees.  There  was  a  feeling  of  cold  and 
raw  dampness  in  the  air. 

Peggy  sat  very  silent  beside  her  brother.  Mr. 
Morford  and  his  son  and  daughter  had  all  assem- 
bled on  the  doorstep  to  watch  their  departure. 
Frederick's  face  was  very  stern  but  his  eyes  had 
softened  a  little  as  he  took  Peggy's  little  grey- 
gloved  hand,  and  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  be- 
cause of  the  secret  she  had  imparted  to  him  he 
had  become  like  an  intimate  and  understanding 
friend.  To  no  one  else,  she  felt,  could  she  have 
revealed  herself  with  that  same  frankness.  Even 
Peter,  who  had  hitherto  always  been  the  recipient 
of  Peggy's  simple  confidences,  could  never  have 
been  told  this  particular  one.  It  stood  much  too 
aloof  and  apart  from  all  their  mutual  experiences. 
It  made  her  own  individuality  stand  out  sharply, 
isolating  her.  When  she  came  to  consider  it  as 
she  did  now  with  the  rushing  of  the  car  humming 
in  her  ears,  the  sense  of  isolation  hurt  her,  because 
it  seemed  to  separate  her  from  her  beloved  Peter. 
She  was  jealous  of  anything  that  could  obtrude 
between  them,  destroying  their  perfect  intimacy. 

55 


56  THE  REST  HOUSE 

But  the  sojourn  at  the  Rest  House  had  left 
Peter  perfectly  unchanged  and  untouched ;  it  had 
not  influenced  him  at  all,  one  way  or  the  other, 
and  he  was  still  unaware  of  her  long  vigil.  She 
could  not  tell  him  about  that.  She  almost  won- 
dered now  at  her  own  hardihood  in  being  able- 
arid  without  too  much  difficulty — to  speak  to 
Frederick  Morford  about  it.  He  had  in  a  man- 
ner compelled  her  confidence  with  an  authority 
that  seemed  to  place  them  in  the  respective  posi- 
tions of  master  and  pupil.  It  was  like  asking  ad- 
vice of  a  physician  and  making  at  the  same  time 
a  very  clear  statement  of  your  symptoms  in  order 
to  help  him  to  diagnose  your  case.  Peggy  had 
tried  to  be  absolutely  frank.  Of  course  he  had 
not  been  very  kind — at  least,  not  just  at  first. 
That  note  of  scorn  and  disdain,  that  contemptu- 
ous "You  look  so  weak!"  had  hurt  her  not  a  little. 
But  she  had  felt,  nevertheless,  that  he  understood, 
that  to  him  at  least  she  was  not  speaking  a 
strange  language.  Dimly,  too,  she  realized  that 
he  had  purposely  tried  by  hard  words  to  prove 
her,  to  test  her  sincerity  and  perhaps  her  resolu- 
tion. His  contempt  had  been  for  herself — that 
ease-loving,  luxurious  self  he  had  discerned  in 
her,  the  Mildon  self,  in  fact,  that  had  never  once 
looked  beyond  the  Mildon  standards.  But  he 
threw  no  cold  draught  of  doubt  upon  the  genuine- 
ness of  her  experience,  which  would  certainly  have 
found  small  credence  at  Mildon. 

Suddenly    she    stretched   out   her   hand    and 
touched  Peter's  impulsively. 

"Oh,  Peter,  I  was  sorry  to  come  away!    I  was 
so  happy  there !" 


THE  REST  HOUSE  57 

The  fact  at  least  he  must  know,  and  she  longed 
for  him  to  echo  the  sentiments. 

"Happy?"  There  was  no  doubt  about  his 
astonishment  as  he  looked  at  her  with  his  gay, 
whimsical  eyes.  "Why,  Pegs,  I  was  afraid  you 
were  being  bored  to  tears,  just  as  I  was!  I  mean 
they  were  jolly  decent  and  all  that,  but  there  was 
nothing  on  earth  to  do  from  morning  till  night ! 
I  felt  I  really  couldn't  stick  it  another  day,  and 
that's  why  I  made  an  excuse  to  push  off.  That 
chap  Frederick  must  have  a  thin  time.  He  told 
me  that  he'd  spent  a  few  years  once  in  the  army, 
but  he  had  to  leave  because  they  couldn't  afford 
to  keep  him  there.  Hard  luck,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peggy.  "You  did  like  them,  didn't 
you,  Peter?"  she  added  almost  wistfully. 

"Oh,  I  liked  them  well  enough.  Frederick 
seemed  a  good  sort,  though  a  little  bit  glum  and 
serious.  I'd  like  to  have  him  down  at  Mildon, 
but  I'm  afraid  he  wouldn't  be  allowed." 

"Why?"  asked  Peggy. 

"Oh,  because  he's  a  Catholic  and  all  that,"  said 
Peter. 

"I  should  have  liked  to  ask  Mary,  too,"  said 
Peggy. 

"I  don't  think  they'd  care  to  come,"  said  Peter. 
It  was  almost  as  difficult  to  picture  the  sister  as 
the  brother  in  those  elegant  surroundings.  "How 
odd  it  must  be  to  be  a  Catholic  and  go  to  Catholic 
schools.  Somehow  a  chap  always  seems  quite 
different — it  changes  the  outlook.  That's  why 
you  find  they  generally  keep  to  their  own  sort. 
If  ours  were  a  Catholic  house  neither  of  the  Mor- 
fords  would  feel  strange  there,  although  we  are 


58  THE  REST  HOUSE 

rich  and  they  must  be  as  poor  as  church 
mice!" 

"How  do  you  know  they  would  feel  strange 
there  now,  Peter?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  knew  lots  of  them  at  Oxford.  Not  well 
at  all,  hut  quite  enough  to  see  how  exclusive  they 
were.  I  suppose  it's  the  hereditary  result  of  the 
persecutions  that  makes  them  keep  aloof." 

"I  have  never  known  any  before,"  said  Peggy; 
"but  it  seemed  to  me  they  had  something  that 
made  them  very  happy  and  contented."  She 
looked  earnestly  at  Peter.  "Yet  Mary  was  very 
shabby,  and  she  worked  hard — harder  than  any 
of  our  servants.  I  am  sure.  She  even  helped  in 
the  kitchen,  and  she  told  me  she  always  made  the 
butter  and  baked  the  bread  herself." 

They  arrived  at  Mildon  rather  late  for  dinner. 
To  Peggy's  relief  there  were  no  guests,  and  she 
hurriedly  slipped  into  a  white  crepe-de-chine  tea- 
gown  and  ran  down  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
she  found  Lady  Metcalfe  alone.  She  went  up  to 
her  and  kissed  her  timidly.  She  felt  so  changed, 
and  yet  she  longed  to  show  her  mother  that  she 
was  not  changed. 

"Well,  Peggy,"  said  Lady  Metcalfe,  "I  hope 
you  are  none  the  worse  for  your  escapade.  Your 
father  is  extremely  annoyed  with  Peter.  It  was 
very  wrong  of  him  to  persuade  you  to  go  in  the 
car  in  such  weather.  Beatrice  should  never  have 
allowed  it.  We  must  be  thankful  the  accident 
was  no  worse  and  that  you  were  neither  of  you 
hurt.  I  hear  you  stayed  at  the  most  benighted 
farm  imaginable." 

"Yes,"  said  Peggy,  a  little  chilled. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  59 

She  longed  to  defend  Peter,  but  she  could  not 
find  courage  to  take  the  blame  upon  herself. 

"Farmers,  I  suppose?"  said  Lady  Metcalfe. 

"The  son  looks  after  the  farm.  They  are  not 
well  off,"  said  Peggy,  "but  old  Mr.  Morford  is 
a  writer;  and  there  was  a  girl — a  little  older  than 
lam." 

"I  hope  it  was  not  very  rough?"  inquired  Lady 
Metcalfe. 

"Oh,  no;  they  did  all  they  could  to  make  us 
comfortable,"  said  Peggy.  "They  were  very 
hospitable  and  kind.  And  they  were  Catholics," 
she  added  hesitatingly. 

"Catholics?  How  extraordinary!"  said  Lady 
Metcalfe. 

"They  had  a  chapel;  and  there  was  a  priest 
staying  there." 

"I  hope  you  did  not  talk  to  him?"  said  her 
mother,  severely. 

"Oh,  no — I  never  saw  him  to  speak  to.  He 
was  ill,"  said  Peggy. 

"It  all  sounds  charmingly  medieval,"  said 
Lady  Metcalfe,  "but  I  hope  they  did  not  try  on 
any  of  their  proselytizing  tricks  with  you,  Peg- 
gy? Of  course  the  time  was  short,  but  Roman 
Catholics  never  miss  an  opportunity  if  they  can 
help  it.  It  is  quite  pitiable  to  think  of  the  homes 
they  have  divided  and  broken  up!" 

Peggy  started  and  flushed.  Her  mother's 
words  seemed  to  color  Frederick's  words  and  ex- 
hortations with  a  new  and  dark  significance,  im- 
puting to  him  also  an  ugly  and  sinister  motive. 
She  felt  for  a  second  a  violent  recoil  against  Mor- 
ford, against  herself  also  for  her  so  easy  yielding 


60  THE  REST  HOUSE 

to  his  influence,  and  for  being  carried  away  by 
his  words.  She  seemed  now  to  detect  something 
of  unscrupulous  power  in  Frederick  Morford, 
and  it  brought  to  her  a  sense  of  secret  shame  that 
she  had  proved  so  ready  a  victim. 

Then  she  thought  of  the  quiet  of  the  long,  long 
night,  the  night  spent  alone  with  that  silent  Pres- 
ence, and  the  red  glimmering  lamp  that  burned 
like  a  jewel  before  the  Tabernacle,  and  suddenly 
she  was  aware  that  this  and  this  alone  had  really 
and  profoundly  influenced  her.  Frederick  had 
been  but  the  human  messenger,  the  instrument, 
who  had  explained  those  divine  mysteries  to  her. 
He  had  done  this  with  obvious  reluctance ;  often 
his  tone  had  been  positively  discouraging;  his 
words  had  been  colored,  too,  with  a  certain 
roughness  of  contempt  as  if  he  doubted  alike  her 
sincerity  and  her  motives. 

"It  is  quite  providential  that  they  live  so  far 
off,"  continued  Lady  Metcalfe.  "There  will  be 
no  need  to  take  any  further  notice  of  them  ex- 
cept just  a  polite  note  to  this  Miss  Morford, 
thanking  her.  You  might  show  it  to  me  before 
you  send  it,  Peggy." 

"We  hoped,"  said  Peggy  timidly  but  desper- 
ately, "that  perhaps  we  might  have  asked  them 
here.  Not  old  Mr.  Morford,  but  Mary  and  her 
brother " 

"It  is  quite  unnecessary  and  would  be  most 
undesirable,"  said  Lady  Metcalfe  in  that  brisk, 
definite  tone  she  always  employed  for  her  author- 
itative utterances. 

"But  they  were  so  very  kind — so  hospitable — " 
said  Peggy. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  61 

"That's  enough,  dear  Peggy.  It  tires  me  to 
argue  with  you.  Diana  and  Beatrice  always  ac- 
cepted what  I  wished  so  simply  and  gracefully," 
said  Lady  Metcalfe. 

It  was  unwise  of  Peggy  to  persist,  but  persist 
she  did. 

"They  knew  nothing  about  us,  and  we  looked 
just  like  two  tramps  when  we  got  there.  Yet 
they  took  us  in  and  gave  us  food,  and  lodging, 
and  shelter,  and  clothes,"  said  Peggy. 

"I  am  sure  they  were  everything  that  was  most 
kind.  I  only  wish  it  were  possible  to  do  some- 
thing for  them  in  return." 

She  began  to  perceive — for  very  few  things  in 
connection  with  her  five  children  ever  escaped 
Lady  Metcalfe — that  Peggy  had  been  attracted 
by  these  strangers.  She  was  always  impression- 
able, reflected  her  mother,  and  was  liable  to  be 
impressed,  too,  by  undesirable  things,  when  her 
long  and  careful  training  should  have  saved  her. 
She  must  set  to  work  to  discover  wherein  lay  this 
subtle  attraction,  and  proceed  forthwith  to  de- 
molish it. 

"Did  you  go  into  their  chapel,  Peggy?"  she 
inquired. 

Peggy  started  and  flushed  again,  and  an- 
swered "Yes,"  in  a  low,  timid  voice. 

Lady  Metcalfe  reflected  almost  bitterly  that 
Diana  and  Beatrice  could  at  any  point  of  their 
well-conducted  careers  have  safely  spent  the 
night  at  a  remote  Somersetshire  farmhouse  in- 
habited by  poverty-stricken  Catholics  without 
manifesting  any  of  this  subsequent  emotion,  this 
starting,  this  nervous  flushing,  this  timid  but  ob- 


62  THE  REST  HOUSE 

stinate  espousal  of  their  cause.  But  it  was  use- 
less to  try  to  mould  Peggy  to  a  standard  to 
which  she  was  not  naturally  adapted.  Her  sis- 
ters, full  of  tact  and  savoir  faire,  always  did  and 
said  the  right  thing  as  interpreted  by  the  Olym- 
pians! 

Peggy  could  not  meet  her  mother's  eyes,  for 
she  knew  that  she  would  probe  with  determina- 
tion this  line  of  inquiry,  and  she  wondered  how 
far  she  would  be  able  to  retain  her  secret. 

"To  a  service?"  inquired  Lady  Metcalfe. 

"Yes." 

"What  service?" 

"Benediction — and  Mass." 

Lady  Metcalfe  frowned. 

"Surely  there  was  no  necessity?  Surely  they 
were  not  so  ill-bred  as  to  persuade  you  to  go?" 

"I  went  of  my  own  accord.  I  wished  to  go. 
It — it  interested  me,"  said  Peggy. 

"You  did  not  think  perhaps  it  would  be  utterly 
against  my  wishes !"  pursued  Lady  Metcalfe. 

"I  am  afraid  I  did  not  think  about  that,"  said 
Peggy,  raising  her  clear  brown  eyes  to  Lady 
Metcalfe's  blue  ones. 

"You  never  do  think  of  anything  but  what  you 
wish  to  do.  I  never  knew  any  one  so  unmindful 
of  other  people's  wishes." 

Peggy  was  silent. 

"In  future  I  must  forbid  anything  of  the 
kind.  You  are  not  to  go  into  a  Roman  Catholic 
church — anywhere.  Do  you  quite  understand, 
Peggy?" 

"Yes,  mother,  I  quite  understand." 

She  looked  at  her  mother  curiously.     Lady 


THE  REST  HOUSE  63 

Metcalfe's  face  was  flushed  with  anger.  She 
could  be  severe  when  she  chose. 

"Are  you  going  to  obey  me?" 

"I  can  not  promise.    I — I  will  try." 

Her  voice  was  low  and  troubled. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  speak  to  your  father?" 
There  was  a  little  threat  now  in  Lady  Metcalfe's 
voice,  for  she  was  irritated  by  Peggy's  obstinacy. 
She  knew  that  she  was  afraid  of  her  father. 

"Would  he  care?" 

"Of  course  he  would  care.  He  never  employs 
a  Roman  Catholic  either  here  or  in  his  office." 

Even  when  Peggy  as  a  little  child  had  shown 
this  obstinate,  rebellious  spirit  Lady  Metcalfe 
had  always  been  aware  of  something  out  of  her 
reach — something  that  could  not  be  touched  by 
sharp,  coercive  measures — something  that  as  now 
mutely  and  almost  pathetically  defied  her.  Peg- 
gy had  been  always  the  troublesome  one  I 

And  it  was  still  there,  that  indefinable  "some- 
thing"— desperately  silent  and  hidden  and  re- 
pressed. 

Lady  Metcalfe  rose  briskly  from  her  seat. 

"You  will  think  it  over  and  tell  me  your  an- 
swer to-morrow,  Peggy,"  she  said. 

Peggy  was  silent.  She  was  very  pale  now,  but 
her  eyes  were  bright,  almost  defiant.  She  rose  as 
her  mother  rose  and  stood  there  in  a  drooping 
attitude.  The  first  storm  had  passed  over  her, 
and  she  felt  uncertain  and  insecure.  She  had  not 
the  strength  to  weather  many  storms.  Aware  of 
this  weakness  in  herself,  she  could  not  bring  her- 
self to  answer  her  mother.  To  make  that  prom- 
ise involved  something  of  conscience.  Those 


64  THE  REST  HOUSE 

spiritual  needs  so  suddenly  awakened  were  still 
passionately  pressing  their  claims  to  be  satisfied. 
All  the  time  she  was  thinking  to  herself,  "What 
shall  I  do?  What  ought  I  to  do?"  Ought  she 
to  obey  blindly,  implicitly?  Peggy  dreaded  a 
struggle  with  her  parents ;  she  knew  by  past  ex- 
perience that  she  was  always  the  one  to  emerge 
conquered  and  hurt  from  such  an  encounter ;  she 
dreaded  her  father's  cold  ironic  anger  that  lashed 
like  a  whip.  Why  was  it  so  difficult  to  make  a 
promise  which  ought  to  have  been  so  easy?  Peg- 
gy had  a  tender  conscience  and  she  felt  there  was 
something  unfilial  about  her  very  resistance. 
But  it  was  strange  that  even  now  she  felt  less 
fear  of  her  father  than  of  breaking  that  word  of 
hers,  "I  will  come — I  will  come." 

That  night  when  she  went  up  to  bed  the  influ- 
ence of  the  Rest  House  held  her  powerfully. 
Last  night  at  this  time  she  was  kneeling  in  the 
little  chapel,  and  now  she  could  almost  fancy 
herself  kneeling  there  again,  all  through  the  long 
and  cold  winter  night  until  the  grey  dawn  stole 
in  through  the  small  leaded  panes,  telling  her- 
self, when  she  could  formulate  any  ideas  at  all, 
that  she  had  found  all  that  she  had  most  uncon- 
sciously and  blindly  sought.  She  tried  to  free 
herself  from  the  remembrance,  telling  herself 
that  it  was  a  beautiful  dream  which  could  never 
be  realized.  Could  a  sojourn  of  twenty-four 
hours  in  a  new  and  unaccustomed  environment 
suffice  to  change  the  whole  tenor  of  her  life? 
There  had  been  something  vivid  and  vital  and 
passionate  and  compelling  about  it  all.  She  saw 
again  the  shabby,  poorly  furnished  rooms,  scru- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  65 

pulously  clean  and  curiously  unlovely,  the  fig- 
ures of  Mary  and  Frederick  Morford  passed  be- 
fore her  eyes,  but  they  seemed  almost  like  shad- 
ows to  her  now.  The  only  thing  that  lived  for 
her  to-night  was  the  chapel  where  she  had  offered, 
as  it  seemed  to  her  now,  her  whole  soul  to  the  wor- 
ship and  service  of  God. 


CHAPTER  V 

HERE  is  perhaps  no  complacency  so  complete, 
so  indestructible  as  that  displayed  by  those 
persons  who  are  at  once  stout  and  rich.  It  would 
almost  seem  as  if  their  very  embonpoint  was  in 
itself  indicative  of  the  supreme  interior  satisfac- 
tion produced  by  the  knowledge  of  the  immutable 
stability  of  their  financial  prosperity. 

Lady  Metcalfe  was  a  case  in  point.  She  had 
inherited  a  large  fortune  from  her  American 
mother,  who  had  joined  her  innumerable  dollars 
to  the  pounds  sterling  ( some  were  unkind  enough 
to  allude  to  them  as  shekels)  of  Vincent  Lam- 
pard  of  Lampard  &  Co.  When  Jane  Lampard 
reached  the  age  of  twenty  (a  time  when  plump- 
ness and  rosiness  are  at  the  zenith  of  their  at- 
tractions) she  had  married  John  Metcalfe,  of 
Metcalfe  &  Co.,  Limited  (how  strictly  limited 
only  the  members  of  that  admirably  conducted 
firm  were  really  aware) .  She  added  her  fortune 
to  that  of  her  husband  in  a  marriage  settlement 
which  was  the  product  of  two  highly  trained  law- 
yers, who  in  turn  were  prompted  and  abetted  by 
two  practical,  hard-headed,  and  experienced 
business  men.  It  was  indeed  a  legal  document 
which  might  almost  have  served  as  a  final  expres- 
sion and  model  of  its  kind. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  book  to  relate  the 
rise  of  the  firm  of  Metcalfe  &  Co.,  for,  indeed, 
such  a  record  would  prove  monotonous  from  its 
unvarying  character.  It  would  be  merely  the 

66 


THE  REST  HOUSE  67 

history  of  an  unbroken  commercial  success  con- 
sequent upon  the  enterprise,  diligence,  and  pru- 
dence of  three  successive  generations.  But  great 
as  the  firm  had  been  under  his  father  and  his 
grandfather,  it  really  only  achieved  true  great- 
ness and  distinction  when  John  Metcalfe  the 
Third  assumed  the  reins  of  its  government.  He 
was  indeed  one  of  the  uncrowned  kings  of  com- 
merce, and  possibly,  in  recognition  of  this  fact, 
and  of  his  large  and  even  munificent  donations  to 
important  charities,  a  baronetcy  had  been  be- 
stowed upon  him,  although  many  were  of  opinion 
that  only  a  crown  and  scepter  could  adequately 
have  rewarded  him. 

Lady  Metcalfe  had  brought  up  admirably  and 
so  far  without  much  difficulty  a  family  of  five 
children,  consisting  of  two  sons  and  three  daugh- 
ters. She  had  made  but  one  mistake,  for  which 
no  one  could  hold  her  responsible,  and  this  lay 
in  the  sex  of  her  youngest  child  (who,  properly 
speaking,  ought — it  was  keenly  felt — to  have 
been  a  son  instead  of  a  third  daughter.  One  son 
for  the  Firm — to  carry  on  that  triumphant  name 
— a  second  for  the  Army,  and  a  third  for  the 
Navy — that  would  have  been  the  perfect  balance, 
the  arrangement  which  would  have  been  above 
all  criticism.  Although  the  mother  was  blame- 
less in  the  matter,  she  illogically  attributed  some- 
thing of  blame  to  the  girl  herself,  and  while  it 
was  impossible  for  her  to  be  anything  but  kind 
and  maternally  solicitous,  she  was  in  point  of 
fact  a  shade  less  affectionately  disposed  toward 
Peggy  than  toward  her  other  children.  She  had 
been  heard  more  than  once  to  assert  that  Peggy 


68  THE  REST  HOUSE 

was  troublesome,  and  to  say  that  it  was  a  pity 
she  was  so  unlike  her  two  elder  sisters  in  charac- 
ter as  well  as  in  looks.  Peggy  was  three  years 
younger  than  Vivian,  who  came  next  to  her  in 
age.  The  other  four  had  followed  each  other 
rapidly,  and  it  may  have  been  that  Lady  Met- 
calfe  had  imagined  she  had  brought  her  role  of 
maternity  to  a  close  in  the  person  of  her  younger 
son.  That  Peggy  proved  to  be  a  girl  was  a  dou- 
ble offense.  She  was  the  crumpled  rose-leaf  that 
did  occasionally  threaten  to  disturb  —  though 
only  remotely — the  complacency  of  her  mother. 

The  two  elder  girls  had  made  brilliant  mar- 
riages at  the  respective  ages  of  nineteen  and 
twenty.  They  were  considered  beautiful  and, 
indeed,  they  had  inherited  from  their  mother 
her  pink  and  white  complexion,  her  clear  blue 
eyes  and  masses  of  golden  hair.  Both  were  tall 
and  graceful.  Lady  Metcalfe  had  seen  them 
lead  in  triumph  to  the  hymeneal  altar  the  eldest 
sons  of  two  peers,  for  although  the  Metcalfes 
were  soundly  radical,  Sir  John  would  have  dis- 
dained lesser  aspirants  for  his  daughters,  and 
preferred  to  form  new  connections  among  the  old 
nobility. 

His  eldest  son  Peter  was  consecrated  (no  less 
solemn  term  could  efficiently  describe  this  relega- 
tion )  to  the  Firm  from  his  earliest  youth.  Years 
of  suggestion,  of  studious  implication,  made  the 
sacrifice  almost  an  automatic  one  when  he  left 
Oxford  at  the  age  of  twenty-three.  Not  for  him 
the  transient  glory  of  the  Army,  the  glamour  of 
the  Navy,  the  subtle  attractions  of  diplomacy 
with  its  titles  and  orders.  He  could  not  be  spared 


THE  REST  HOUSE  69 

to  shine  thus  as  a  merely  decorative  adjunct  of 
his  country.  Metcalfe  &  Co.  claimed  the  first- 
born with  the  dreadful  precision  of  an  Egyptian 
plague,  with  the  relentlessness  of  a  determined 
Herod. 

A  year  or  two's  grace  had  been  accorded  to 
him;  he  was  even  allowed  to  remain  an  extra 
year  at  Oxford  in  order  to  take  his  degree — a 
process  which  had  presented  some  difficulty  to 
him.  Sir  John  knew  the  value  of  a  little  rope. 
His  son  could  afford  the  loss  of  a  year  or  two 
before  his  initiation  into  the  mysteries  of  the 
Firm.  Peter  was  well  aware  that,  humanly 
speaking,  there  was  little  chance  of  his  being  able 
to  escape  ultimately  that  destiny  which  should 
have  been  so  agreeable  to  him,  yet  from  which  he 
instinctively  shrank.  At  the  last  he  only  exhib- 
ited a  faint  restiveness,  a  protest  so  slight  it  could 
hardly  be  called  rebellion,  at  the  prospect  of  hav- 
ing to  pass  the  greater  part  of  his  days,  and  con- 
sequently of  his  life,  in  the  huge,  hideous,  Lon- 
don office.  He  was  horribty  conscious  that  he 
was  not  of  the  stuff  of  which  successful  business 
men  are  made.  (His  eldest  sister  Diana,  now 
Lady  Maddinard,  was  the  only  one  of  the  five 
children  who  could  adequately  have  upheld  the 
family  tradition  in  this  respect,  and  being,  un- 
fortunately, a  woman,  she  could  only  practise  her 
talent  in  a  very  limited  sphere.)  Peter  was  a 
handsome,  slender,  rather  delicate-looking  youth 
with  grey  eyes  and  brown  hair  and  a  vague, 
dreamy  expression.  At  Oxford  he  had  com- 
peted for  the  Newdigate,  and  although  he  missed 
the  coveted  prize  his  work  had  been  greatly  com- 


70  THE  REST  HOUSE 

mended.  This  had  given  Sir  John  a  decided 
shock,  and  he  preferred  that  the  attempt  should 
have  proved  unsuccessful.  Indeed,  he  regarded 
the  writing  of  poetry  as  a  kind  of  intellectual 
sowing  of  wild  oats  to  be  checked  only  if  it  threat- 
ened to  become  a  permanent  occupation.  He 
had  never  been  taken  that  way  himself,  and  he 
would  certainly  have  nipped  in  the  bud  any  crav- 
ing for  artistic  expression  in  his  own  person  just 
as  he  would  have  repressed  any  other  undesirable 
tendency  to  self-indulgence.  But  as  in  the  end 
he  intended  to  demand  the  supreme  sacrifice  of 
Peter  (he  did  not  put  it  to  himself  in  those  words 
and  only  perhaps  vaguely  realized  that  they  were 
thoroughly  appropriate)  he  had  so  far  expressed 
no  disapprobation  of  these  literary  vagaries.  It 
was  not  what  Peter  had  been  sent  to  Oxford  for, 
but  no  matter.  He  had  all  the  rest  of  his  life  in 
which  to  devote  himself  to  acquiring  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  affairs  of  Metcalfe  &  Co.,  so 
that  when  the  time  came  he  could  assume  the 
guidance  and  direction  of  its  manifold  activities 
with  that  same  grasp,  that  wise,  prudent  foresight 
characteristic  of  those  who  had  preceded  him  in 
that  important  office. 

John  Metcalfe  was  a  hard,  capable  man  of  un- 
wearying industry,  shrewd,  honest,  and  relentless. 
His  thin,  lantern- jawed  face  (the  very  antithesis 
of  his  wife's  sleek,  pink  comeliness)  with  its  gray- 
ing hair,  its  light,  keen,  piercing  eyes,  its  sharp, 
thin  slit  of  a  mouth,  was  not  the  face  of  a  man 
who  could  easily  be  trifled  with.  No  one  could 
lightly  hope  to  do  a  deal  with  John  Metcalfe, 
and  any  one  approaching  him  with  that  intention 


THE  REST  HOUSE  71 

must  have  relinquished  all  idea  of  a  successful 
issue  at  first  sight  of  him  securely  ensconced  be- 
hind his  huge  roll-topped  desk.  You  would  have 
realized  at  once  that  you  were  up  against  some- 
thing as  hard  as  the  nether  rock  and  twice  as 
resistant.  Perhaps  that  was  what  Peter  felt 
when  the  very  night  of  his  return  from  the  Rest 
House  Sir  John  made  use  of  the  opportunity 
offered  by  the  escapade  to  reprove  his  son  for  his 
careless  thoughtlessness  in  thus  exposing  his  sis- 
ter to  useless  danger,  and  to  assure  him  that  it 
was  impossible  to  let  him  hang  about  in  idleness 
any  longer.  It  was  nearly  six  months  since 
Peter,  having  at  last  taken  his  degree,  had  come 
down  from  Oxford.  He  was  now  nearly  twenty- 
four,  an  age  at  which  serious  men  were  resolutely 
set  upon  their  intended  career. 

As  he  stood  opposite  his  father  that  night  in 
the  fine  study  at  Mildon  Place — that  magnificent 
Surrey  residence  protected  and  sheltered  from 
inclement  northern  airs  by  a  ridge  of  the  North 
Downs — Peter's  mind  traveled  inconsequently 
back  to  that  day  some  six  years  ago  when  during 
his  last  term  at  Eton  he  had  been  summoned  to 
London  to  be  present  at  the  double  wedding  of 
his  two  sisters.  He  realized  that  his  future 
brothers-in-law  were  the  respective  heirs  to  peer- 
ages of  undoubted  antiquity  and  importance. 
(Somehow  he  had  always  imagined  that  Beatrice 
would  marry  their  young  neighbor  Claude  Ver- 
non.)  It  had  seemed  to  Peter  then  that  every- 
thing had  suddenly  changed,  and  that  the  old 
happy  family  group,  with  its  quarrels  and  friend- 
ships, had  been  broken  up  forever.  Even  famil- 


72 

iar  figures  were  scarcely  recognizable.  Diana 
and  Beatrice  were  beautiful  brides  even  to  a 
brother's  critical  eyes.  They  were  tall,  slender, 
perfectly  arrayed,  but  he  had  liked  them  better 
when  he  had  last  seen  them  in  their  country  coats 
and  skirts  of  hard  blue  serge.  He  felt  actually 
timid  of  them,  and  tried  to  remind  himself  of  old 
quarrelling,  old  friendliness,  of  that  rough  give- 
and-take  of  which  family  life  is  largely  composed 
when  the  children  are  all  pretty  much  of  an  age 
and  have  spent  their  nursery  and  school-room 
days  together.  And  although  Beatrice  cried  a 
little  when  she  went  away,  which  brought  her 
abruptly  into  line  with  the  past,  Diana  was 
charmingly  self-possessed  and  played  her  part 
with  a  finished  perfection.  Diana  had  always 
snubbed  him,  and  perhaps  he  had  not  felt  very 
sorry  that  she  was  going  away,  but  he  felt  that 
he  should  miss  Beatrice.  The  double  wedding 
had  been  certainly  a  very  grand  affair,  and  it 
made  quite  a  stir  in  the  midst  of  one  of  those  bril- 
liant London  seasons  that  characterized  the  brief 
and  glorious  Edwardian  epoch,  and  which  were 
never  so  perfectly  repeated  after  the  death  of 
that  lamented  monarch.  That  year  had  smiled 
upon  the  Metcalfe  family,  for  Sir  John  had  been 
included  among  the  Birthday  Honors.  Many 
papers,  in  commenting  upon  this,  had  predicted 
confidently  that  he  would  hereafter  be  the  recip- 
ient of  even  more  dazzling  marks  of  recognition 
than  that  of  a  mere  baronetcy.  It  was  then  that 
Lady  Metcalfe's  complacency  seemed  to  acquire 
a  more  definite  value,  destroying,  indeed,  the 
little  sense  of  humor  she  had  ever  possessed. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  73 

Peter  had  felt  even  then  that  on  that  day,  so 
symptomatic  of  Metcalfe  prosperity  and  ad- 
vancement, his  sisters  had  arrived  at  those  cross- 
roads which  in  every  life  must  invariably  present 
themselves.  He  wondered  how  far  they  had  been 
free  to  choose,  and  suspected  that  at  least  in 
Beatrice's  case  the  path  had  been  kindly  but  most 
firmly  designated  by  the  Olympian  finger.  His 
mind  was  chaotic  and  confused  and  full  of  these 
reminiscences,  although  he  was  really  trying  to 
pay  attention  to  his  father's  words.  He  had  even 
expressed  his  regret  for  yesterday's  happenings ; 
his  hope  that  Peggy  would  be  none  the  worse 
for  the  adventure.  Sir  John  accepted  the  regret, 
and  then  proceeded  to  inform  Peter  of  his  wishes 
and  intentions  concerning  his  elder  son's  future 
career.  Immediately  after  Christmas  he  would 
be  expected  to  attend  the  office  regularly,  going 
up  to  town  by  the  eight-thirty  train,  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  earlier  than  the  one  which 
had  the  daily  privilege  of  conveying  Sir  John  to 
the  fastnesses  of  the  metropolis.  He  would  begin 
just  as  any  other  clerk,  with  the  same  hours,  the 
same  salary,  and  scarcely  more  privileges  than 
were  absolutely  essential  to  uphold  the  prestige 
of  the  family.  There  was  nothing  like  beginning 
at  the  very  bottom  of  the  ladder  to  ensure  a  sound 
practical  knowledge  of  and  insight  into  the  busi- 
ness of  the  firm.  Of  course  he  was  six  years  older 
than  the  average  new  clerk.  It  was  a  disad- 
vantage for  which  even  an  Oxford  degree  could 
hardly  compensate. 

"Still,  I  didn't  want  for  various  reasons  to  tie 
you  down  too  early,"  said  Sir  John,  with  the  air 


74  THE  REST  HOUSE 

of  a  monarch  making  magnanimous  conces- 
sions. 

Peter  did  not  care  in  the  least  whether  he  began 
at  the  bottom  or  the  top.  Either  place  would 
have  been  equally  distasteful  to  him.  If  he  had 
been  able  to  step  straight  into  his  father's  august 
shoes  and  assume  the  crown  and  scepter  of  di- 
rectorship he  would  have  loathed  it  just  the  same. 
It  was  the  office  that  mattered.  He  would  enter 
it  never  to  emerge  therefrom,  until  the  dreadful 
soul-destroying  process  was  complete  and  the 
Firm  would  once  more  bear  the  triple  title  of 
Metcalfe,  Son  &  Co. 

He  knew,  though,  that  he  would  yield,  partly 
from  the  filial  motives  so  firmly  inculcated  by  his 
parents  during  early  impressionable  years,  and 
partly  from  the  indolence  of  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment which  makes  it  always  easier  for  the  pos- 
sessor to  submit  rather  than  to  struggle. 

He  was  not  aware  that  the  incertitude  of  his 
own  intentions  had  given  his  worthy  parents  mo- 
ments of  acute  misgiving  and  anxiety.  Sir  John 
rejoiced  when  he  perceived  that  this  natural  anx- 
iety was  to  be  allayed  by  the  admirable  subjection 
of  the  young  man  to  his  own  wishes.  To  Peter 
these  had  indeed  appeared  less  in  the  light  of 
wishes  than  of  commands  forcibly  and  peremp- 
torily uttered,  and  backed  up  at  one  point  in  the 
interview  by  a  veiled  threat.  Sir  John  never  lost 
his  temper ;  the  more  angry  he  was  the  more  im- 
perturbably  glacial  he  became.  People  who  lost 
their  tempers  were  apt  to  lose  their  money,  he 
was  fond  of  affirming.  But  his  anger  was  none 
the  less  apparent  to  Peter  when  just  for  a  single 


THE  REST  HOUSE  75 

moment  he  had  wavered,  and  expostulated 
against  the  immolation  of  his  very  youth  and 
freedom.  He  had  gone  to  the  window  and  pulled 
aside  the  blind  and  looked  out  at  the  still  snowy 
landscape,  illuminated  by  a  wonderful  moon. 
The  trees  in  the  park  were  ebony-black,  and 
showed  massed  velvet  shadows  against  that  world 
of  luminous  whiteness.  It  seemed  to  call  to 
Peter  in  the  name  of  liberty  and  freedom,  and 
it  provoked  from  him  that  futile  remonstrance. 

"Sometimes  I  don't  think  I  want  to  be  a  rich 
man.  This  sort  of  life  suffocates  me.  I've  some- 
times envied  the  tramps  sleeping  out  under  the 
stars!" 

John  Metcalfe's  face  became  slightly  cynical. 

"You  will  have  a  month's  holiday  in  the  sum- 
mer, and  you  can  spend  it  sleeping  under  hay- 
stacks, if  that  kind  of  folly  appeals  to  you !"  And 
he  shut  his  mouth  like  a  trap. 

After  a  few  more  delicate  personalities  of  the 
kind,  Peter,  pale  and  defeated,  acquiesced.  It 
was  the  easier  plan. 

"And  look  here  —  Metcalfe's  doesn't  want 
slackers.  You're  to  give  all  your  attention  to 
the  work  as  well  as  your  time  and  your  brains. 
It's  your  life,  remember!  Don't  start  by  being 
sulky  and  quarreling  with  your  bread  and 
butter!" 

It  was  a  substantial  defeat,  and  when  Peter 
had  retired  Sir  John  went  in  search  of  his  wife. 
He  found  her  alone  in  the  drawing-room. 

"Where's  Peggy?"  he  asked. 

"She  was  tired,  so  I  sent  her  to  bed  early," 
replied  Lady  Metcalfe. 


76  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Sir  John  sat  down  by  the  fire,  took  out  a  cigar- 
ette, lit  it,  and  then  began  gravely  to  recount  the 
substance  of  his  interview  with  Peter.  When  he 
had  related  with  perfect  accuracy  all  that  he  had 
said  and  all  that  Peter  had  so  unwisely  said,  Lady 
Metcalfe  laid  her  hand  on  her  husband's  arm  and 
murmured:  "Dear  John,  you  always  did  know 
exactly  how  to  take  the  boy!" 

She  smiled  with  that  complacent  contentment 
that  always  soothed  and  flattered  Sir  John  with 
its  hint  of  worshiping  approval.  Other  people 
might  have  trouble  with  their  children,  but  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  it  was  their  own  fault,  the  inevi- 
table harvest  of  an  unwise  indulgence  or  an  im- 
prudent severity  in  youth.  She  congratulated 
herself  that  they  had  never  had  any  trouble  of  the 
kind — only  a  few  passing  clouds  easily  dispelled 
by  a  timely  and  discreet  demonstration  of  pa- 
rental power  and  prerogative. 

Sir  John  accepted  the  compliment  and  kissed 
his  wife  on  both  of  her  fat  pink  cheeks,  and  he, 
too,  perhaps  secretly  congratulated  himself  on 
the  smooth  mechanism  of  his  private  life — so  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  most  men ! 

She  knew  the  traces  of  past  storms,  and  per- 
ceiving that  the  interview,  though  perfectly  sat- 
isfactory in  its  ending,  had  not  been  quite  smooth 
in  its  course,  she  prudently  abstained  from  men- 
tioning her  own  slight  annoyance  evoked  by  the 
obstinacy  of  Peggy.  Besides,  she  felt  certain 
that  Peggy  would  approach  her  on  the  morrow 
with  the  required  promise,  and  perhaps  a  timid 
apology  that  it  had  not  been  at  once  freely  and 
frankly  made. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON  THE  following  morning  after  breakfast — 
at  which  his  sister  had  not  appeared,  having 
not  as  yet  recovered,  he  was  informed,  from  the 
fatigue  consequent  upon  his  careless  exposure  of 
her  delicate  person  to  the  wild  snowstorms  of 
Somersetshire — Peter  found  his  way  up  to  the 
old  schoolroom  on  the  second  floor,  which  now,  no 
longer  consecrated  to  its  original  use,  had  become 
a  den  for  Peggy.  It  was  a  large,  comfortable 
room  with  a  deep  bay  window  and  a  lovely  view 
over  the  Park,  with  even  a  glimpse  in  the  far  dis- 
tance of  the  blue  Sussex  Weald.  The  walls  were 
paneled  with  white  woodwork,  and  on  two  sides 
they  were  filled  with  fitted  book-cases  to  the 
height  of  about  five  feet.  There  were  flowers  in 
abundance  in  both  vases  and  pots.  The  chairs 
were  covered  with  fresh  and  pretty  chintz,  and 
there  was  a  white  carpet  with  a  border  of  pink 
rosebuds  on  the  floor.  Altogether  it  made  a  very 
dainty  and  charming  sitting-room  for  Peggy. 

Photographs  of  Beatrice  and  Diana  occupied 
prominent  positions  on  the  tables  and  piano,  and 
almost  provided  a  complete  history  of  those  suc- 
cessful ladies.  You  could  see  them  presented  by 
the  art  of  Alice  Hughes  with  lilies  in  their  hands 
and  looking  girlishly  innocent,  almost  simpering, 
in  the  days  of  their  respective  betrothals.  Fur- 
ther on  they  appeared  as  brides;  a  little  later 
they  hung  in  beautifully  maternal  attitudes  over 
elaborate  cradles  whence  an  infant's  indetermi- 

77 


78  THE  REST  HOUSE 

nate  features  were  obscurely  visible;  now  they 
were  photographed  with  two  children,  now  (but 
this  only  in  the  case  of  Beatrice )  with  three.  The 
fashion  of  their  hair  and  of  their  frocks  differed 
in  almost  every  photograph,  but  the  faces  re- 
mained unchanged;  Diana's  calm,  determined, 
secure  in  its  crystallized,  unshakable  conviction  of 
superiority;  Beatrice's  gentle,  smiling,  suggest- 
ive both  of  acquiescence  and  submission. 

Peggy,  who  for  one  wild,  unforgotten  moment 
had  been  the  recipient  of  Beatrice's  confidences  a 
week  before  the  wedding,  used  to  marvel  some- 
times at  that  smile,  that  gentle  air  of  acceptance, 
and  wondered,  too,  if  those  dear  cherubic  baby 
faces  had  compensated  for  all  that  her  sister  had 
deliberately  forfeited.  Peggy  had  had  moments 
of  apprehensive  dread  that  some  similar  fate 
might  overtake  herself. 

As  Peter  came  into  the  room  that  morning  the 
familiar  photographs  arrested  his  attention.  He 
felt  a  fellow-feeling  for  Beatrice — who  had  cried. 
He  wondered  if  she,  too,  had  had  this  yearning  for 
a  simple  freedom — for  long  nights  spent  out 
under  the  stars,  away  from  an  atmosphere  of 
clinging  comfort  that  choked  you.  But  the  latest 
presentment  of  her  reassured  him,  and  he  knew 
from  his  recent  visit  to  Lavender  that  it  was  no 
fictitious  picture.  It  was  admirably  natural — this 
young  mother  sitting  with  her  children,  holding 
the  baby  on  her  knee  while  little  Ethne  and  Jack 
stood  one  on  each  side  of  her,  clinging  to  her. 
Beatrice,  a  parent  herself,  had  presumably  done 
with  the  heart-burnings  of  youth;  she  had  joined 
the  opposite  camp,  and  apparently  she  was  per- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  79 

fectly  satisfied  and  contented  with  the  lot  that 
had  been  chosen  for  her. 

A  slight  movement  in  the  window  made  him 
turn  abruptly  from  his  meditation  upon  Bea- 
trice, and  he  became  aware  of  the  dark  mass  of 
hair,  the  pale  averted  profile,  which  was  all  he 
could  at  present  see  of  Peggy,  whose  sympathy 
he  had  come  to  seek.  He  went  up  and  roughly 
flung  an  enveloping  arm  about  her. 

"Pegs,  old  girl!"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  sob 
in  his  voice  and  the  tears  raced  unashamedly 
down  his  face. 

Peggy  did  not  take  her  eyes  off  her  book ;  that 
break  in  Peter's  voice  warned  her  that  it  would 
be  better  not  to  look  at  him  just  then.  But  she 
put  up  her  hand  and  slid  it  round  his  neck. 
Peggy  was  full  of  delicate  instincts;  her  sensi- 
tiveness was  not  of  the  kind  which  is  self -centered 
and  shrinks  only  from  personal  wounds ;  she  was 
as  sharply  aware  of  pain  in  those  she  loved  as  she 
could  ever  be  in  herself. 

The  two  faces  were  singularly  alike.  They 
were  the  only  two  dark  Metcalfes,  and  it  was 
perhaps  because  of  their  inability  to  conform  to 
the  family  standard  of  looks  that  they  had  both 
been  relegated  since  their  nursery  days  to  the 
position  of  ugly  ducklings. 

"I  couldn't  come  and  tell  you  about  it  last 
night,"  he  said  at  last,  "you'd  gone  to  bed." 

"Tell  me  about  it  now,  Peter  dear,"  said  Peg- 
gy. In  spite  of  the  four  years  between  their 
ages  they  had  always  been  the  closest  of  friends. 
Like  called  to  like.  Only  Beatrice  had  ever 
touched  the  fringe  of  that  friendship,  and  she  had 


80  THE  REST  HOUSE 

been  a  deserter;  she  had  gone  off,  if  not  to  the 
enemy,  at  least  to  the  opposing  camp. 

Peter  bit  his  lip,  forcing  back  the  tears. 

"If  one  could  only  make  him  lose  his  temper! 
But  he  just  sat  there  as  cold  as  ice,  as  hard  as 
iron.  First  there  was  a  lot  about  our  accident — 
that  seems  to  have  been  the  last  straw  that 
brought  about  the  crisis!  But  the  fiat's  gone 
forth — I'm  not  to  be  allowed  to  spend  my  days 
in  idleness  any  more.  I'm  to  start  work  directly 
after  Christmas.  Pegs — I'm  to  belong  to  Met- 
calfe  &  Co.  until  the  end  of  my  life!" 

Peggy  put  up  her  hand  and  stroked  his  hair; 
her  touch  was  soft,  and  the  little  action  did  some- 
thing toward  soothing  that  ruffled  spirit. 

"If  it  were  only  for  a  few  years  I  could  stick 
it  right  enough!  But  all  my  life!"  That  gray 
vision  of  endless  years,  spent  as  his  father  spent 
them,  spread  out  before  him  in  an  interminable 
monotonous  procession.  The  waste  of  it  when 
life  might  be  so  beautiful  in  its  freedom!  "Just 
for  the  sake  of  those  loathsome  flesh-pots !" 

He  writhed  with  self -contempt  at  his  own  too 
easy  capitulation. 

"I'm  as  weak  as — as  Beatrice!"  he  declared. 

Peggy  colored  nervously.  That  was  a  subject 
which  she  had  never  discussed  with  Peter,  and 
how  much  he  knew  or  guessed  she  could  not  tell. 
Beatrice,  repenting  of  her  own  indiscretion,  had 
sworn  her  young  sister  to  secrecy. 

"I  shall  be  the  only  one  left  unprovided  for," 
said  Peggy  softly. 

"It'll  be  your  turn  next,  Pegs.  Depend  upon 
it,  they've  already  got  something  up  their  sleeve 


THE  REST  HOUSE  81 

for  you.  It's  not  possible  they  could  have  over- 
looked your 

But  something  in  the  light,  careless  tone  in 
which  he  uttered  this  prophecy  made  Peggy  feel 
a  sinking  of  the  heart,  a  renewal  of  those  dread- 
ful apprehensions  that  had  once  or  twice  before 
assailed  her.  As  if  to  fortify  herself  against 
these  shadowy  fears  she  put  her  arm  again  round 
Peter's  neck  and  kissed  him. 

"I  shall  never  choose  the  flesh-pots!  I  won't! 
I  won't!"  she  said  with  decision. 

"You  wait  and  see,"  said  Peter,  ominously. 
"I  wonder  sometimes  that  they've  left  you  alone 
so  long." 

"I  must  go  down  and  see  mother  now,"  said 
Peggy;  "she  wants  to  see  the  letter  I've  written 
to  Miss  Morford."  She  longed  to  tell  Peter  about 
the  conversation  she  had  had  with  her  mother 
last  night,  but  some  curious  new  instinct  of  reti- 
cence prevented  her. 

"I  hope  you've  given  them  some  nice  message 
from  me,  too,"  said  Peter. 

"Yes — I  said  we  both  thanked  them  very 
much,"  answered  Peggy. 

She  left  her  brother  alone  and  letter  in  hand 
made  her  way  to  her  mother's  sanctum. 

Strangely  enough,  she  felt  none  of  that  ner- 
vous trembling  which  she  had  expected  would 
certainly  assail  her  at  this  critical  moment.  In 
the  contemplation  of  Peter's  acute  and  present 
woes  she  had  allowed  her  own  perplexities  to  slip 
into  the  background.  And  the  morning  had 
given  her  courage.  She  felt  braced  for  the  inter- 
view, although  she  had  not  at  all  made  up  her 


82 

mind  what  she  intended  to  say.  Lady  Metcalfe 
would,  no  doubt,  give  her  a  lead. 

Her  mother  was  already  seated  at  her  fine  old 
Sheraton  writing-table  in  a  room  which  might 
well  have  stood  for  a  final  example  of  meticulous 
comfort.  It  was  hung  with  pale  rose-pink,  and 
all  the  flowers  that  were  massed  there  in  great 
quantities  repeated  in  various  shades  this  exquis- 
ite tone.  The  carpet  repeated  faithfully  the 
prevalent  hue.  Everything  was  perfect — the 
flowers,  the  harmony,  the  detailed  luxury.  There 
were  books  arranged  in  fine  old  book-cases ;  new 
copies  of  the  latest  novels  lay  on  the  table.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  valuable  china,  and  a  few 
priceless  etchings  hung  on  the  walls.  It  was  so 
warm  that  unless  one  looked  outside  at  the  snowy 
Park  one  could  never  have  believed  the  season  to 
be  mid-winter. 

Peggy  came  in  quietly.  She  held  her  small 
head  erect.  She  looked  like  the  Metcalfes,  her 
mother  reflected,  not  defiant  exactly  but  incur- 
ably obstinate.  Diana  and  Beatrice  through  all 
the  years  of  their  maidenhood  had  never  looked 
like  that.  Yet  in  that  brief  survey  Lady  Met- 
calfe did  wonder  whether  many  people  could  be 
of  the  same  opinion  as  Sir  Hugh  Quentin,  who 
had  once  observed  that  the  youngest  Metcalfe 
girl  was  far  more  beautiful  than  either  of  her  sis- 
ters. It  was  a  remark  that  had  been  repeated  to 
her,  and  had  been  received  by  her  with  a  momen- 
tary sensation  of  annoyed  astonishment. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  believe  that  Metcalfe 
standards  could  possibly  be  at  fault,  and  she 
forthwith  proceeded  to  attach  some  ulterior  mo- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  83 

tive  of  definite  partiality  for  Peggy  herself  to  the 
speech  of  this  eminently  desirable  young  man. 

"Well,  Peggy,  my  dear,"  she  said,  offering  a 
plump  pink  cheek,  which  Peggy  dutifully  kissed. 

"Good  morning,  mother,"  said  Peggy.  "I 
have  brought  this  letter  to  Miss  Morf ord  to  show 
you." 

Already  that  sojourn  at  the  Rest  House  was 
becoming  almost  unreal  in  its  remote  distance. 

Lady  Metcalfe  read  the  letter  with  a  kind  of 
scrutinizing  attention.  There  was,  however,  lit- 
tle amiss  with  it,  and  she  gave  it  back  to  Peggy, 
saying: 

"That  does  quite  well.  Perhaps  you  have  said 
a  little  more  than  was  absolutely  necessary — 
after  all,  you  were  only  there  one  night.  But 
Peter  tells  me  they  really  seemed  very  poor,  so 
perhaps  it  is  better  to  show  them  you  appreciated 
their  efforts." 

This  little  speech  jarred  upon  Peggy — she 
could  hardly  tell  why. 

"Have  you  been  thinking  over  what  I  said  to 
you  last  night,  Peggy?"  asked  her  mother. 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Peggy. 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  it,  too,"  said  Lady 
Metcalfe  pleasantly,  "and  I  have  decided  not  to 
insist  upon  your  making  that  promise.  For  one 
thing,  I  feel  there  is  really  no  need,  for  I  am  sure 
I  can  rely  upon  you  to  respect  my  wishes,  and 
then  you  will  have  no  opportunity  of  disregard- 
ing them,  for  you  never  go  anywhere  without 
proper  chaperonage.  An  incident  such  as  hap- 
pened the  day  before  yesterday  can  not  possibly 
occur  again." 


84  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Peggy  felt  convinced  that  something  must  have 
happened  in  the  interim  to  cause  her  mother  to 
compromise  in  this  masterly  way.  She  wondered 
if  any  explanation  would  be  vouchsafed,  and 
Lady  Metcalfe's  next  words  gave  her  a  clue. 

"I  have  had  a  charming  letter  from  Beatrice," 
said  Lady  Metcalfe;  "she  tells  me  that  she  en- 
joyed having  you  and  Peter  there  very  much, 
and  she  hopes  that  you  will  go  back  to  Lavender 
for  the  Hunt  Ball  in  January.  Should  you  like 
that,  Peggy?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  should  like  to  go  very  much,"  said 
Peggy;  "has  she  asked  Peter?" 

"No — she  doesn't  say  anything  about  Peter. 
But  he  couldn't  go  in  any  case.  Peter  must  work 
now.  Your  father  says  he  has  been  idle  quite 
long  enough.  It  would  have  been  better  for  him 
if  he  had  begun  long  ago,  for  there  is  nothing  so 
demoralizing  as  idleness.  You  must  not  expect, 
Peggy,  always  to  have  Peter  to  take  you  about. 
But  I  can  trust  you  to  Beatrice — she  can  look 
after  you  as  well  as  I  can,  and  she  knows  my 
wishes  so  well." 

Peggy  was  not  in  full  possession  of  the  clue; 
had  she  been  allowed  to  read  Beatrice's  letter  her 
knowledge  would  have  been  complete.  For  there 
had  been  a  sentence  in  young  Lady  Charsley's 
letter  which  made  the  proposed  visit  a  very  desir- 
able one  for  Peggy.  "Hugh  Quentin  is  to  stay 
with  us,  too.  You  know,  he  admired  Peggy  last 
summer  at  Oxford.  Even  if  nothing  comes  of  it 
—for  Peggy  does  seem  absurdly  childish  and  un- 
formed for  her  age — I  should  like  him  to  meet 
her  again.  Please  see  that  she  has  plenty  of 


THE  REST  HOUSE  85 

pretty  frocks,  for  there  are  sure  to  be  some  pri- 
vate dances  as  well." 

That  was  so  like  Beatrice — she  was  so  tactful 
and  understanding.  Sir  Hugh  was  a  young  and 
rich  man — Lady  Metcalfe  knew  almost  to  a 
farthing  his  rent  roll  and  almost  to  an  inch  his 
acres.  She  had  met  him  once  and  had  found  him 
passably  good-looking  and  very  agreeable.  And 
though  of  course  it  would  not  be  such  a  brilliant 
match  as  Diana  or  Beatrice  had  made,  it  was  cer- 
tainly quite  as  good  as  Peggy  had  any  right  to 
expect.  Lady  Metcalfe  was  anxious  now  that 
Peggy  should  marry  soon.  There  had  been  a 
certain  manifestation  of  independence  of  thought 
and  action  in  her  conduct  last  night  which  had 
startled  Lady  Metcalfe.  That  touch  of  uncon- 
ventionality  would  be  certain  to  increase  as  she 
grew  older;  it  was  far  better  to  check  it  at  once. 
The  time  was  ripe  for  the  proper  administration 
of  Peggy's  future. 

"That  is  all  I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  Peggy," 
she  said,  and  took  up  her  pen. 

When  her  daughter  had  gone  Lady  Metcalfe 
wrote  a  note  to  Beatrice  accepting  her  invitation 
for  Peggy.  Beatrice's  letter  had  turned  her 
thoughts  into  a  most  promising  channel,  and  she 
began  to  feel  that  the  ultimate  solution  of  Peg- 
gy's problem  was  at  hand.  She  had  compromised 
successfully,  and  thus  had  avoided  any  possible 
scene.  Scenes  were  so  very  upsetting.  Her 
mind  was  riveted  upon  the  determination  to  pro- 
mote a  marriage  between  Peggy  and  Hugh  Quen- 
tin.  She  was  glad  to  think  that  the  idea  had  also 
commended  itself  to  Beatrice.  It  would  be  the 


86  THE  REST  HOUSE 

best  possible  way  of  driving  any  silly  nonsense 
which  Peggy  might  have  picked  up  at  the  Rest 
House  out  of  her  foolish  little  head. 

"With  Peter  as  a  junior  partner  and  Peggy 
married  we  shall  feel  that  all  our  children  are 
most  happily  settled  in  life,  and  that  we  have 
done  our  very  best  for  them,"  thought  Lady 
Metcalfe.  The  knowledge  of  Peter's  short-lived 
resistance  had  left  no  impression  upon  her  at  all, 
for  she  never  allowed  her  mind  to  dwell  unneces- 
sarily upon  anything  that  might  prove  disagree- 
able in  the  contemplation.  The  best  way  of 
cherishing  a  comfortable  conviction  that  all  was 
for  the  best  was  never  to  allow  yourself  to  believe 
that  there  was  another  side  to  the  picture.  Peter, 
dear  boy,  would  be  most  grateful  to  them  in  a 
few  years'  time,  and  Peggy  would  recall  with  un- 
doubted feelings  of  shame  her  absurd  if  transient 
admiration  for  the  Errors  of  Rome. 

However,  she  never  ran  any  risks,  and  in  her 
letter  to  Beatrice  she  informed  her  of  the  ad- 
ventures Peter  and  Peggy  had  met  with  on  the 
way  home,  and  of  her  own  fears  that  Peggy  had 
permitted  herself  to  be  unduly  impressed  by  the 
Roman  Catholic  atmosphere  of  the  place.  "No 
doubt  it  will  soon  wear  off,  but  you  know  how 
troublesome  and  obstinate  she  has  always  been. 
I  have  forbidden  her  most  strictly  to  go  inside  a 
Roman  Catholic  church,  and  I  hope  while  she  is 
with  you  that  you  will  not  let  her  have  any  oppor- 
tunity of  disobeying  me.  So  far  I  have  not  said 
anything  to  your  father  about  it,  for  you  know 
how  nervous  it  makes  her  when  he  gets  at  all 
angry  with  her.  She  is  such  a  mixture  of  timidity 


THE  REST  HOUSE  87 

and  obstinacy,  which  makes  it  very  difficult  to 
deal  with  her." 

But  she  really  entertained  not  the  slightest 
anxiety  about  her  own  ultimate  capability  of  deal- 
ing with  Peggy.  She  thought  it  would  be  quite 
soon  enough  if  the  marriage  were  to  take  place 
immediately  after  Easter.  That  would  give  her 
plenty  of  time  to  get  the  trousseau  and  make  all 
the  necessary  preparations.  She  felt  almost  ex- 
cited at  the  prospect. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SOME  weeks  later,  when  external  serenity  had 
completely  descended  upon  Mildon  and 
Peter  had  begun  work  at  the  office  with  no  fur- 
ther manifestation  of  rebellion  or  discontent, 
Peggy,  accompanied  by  her  maid  and  with  her 
trunks  full  of  pretty  new  frocks,  started  off  on 
her  visit  to  Lavender.  She  had  no  idea  why  her 
mother  had  "made  such  a  fuss"  about  her  clothes 
on  this  particular  occasion,  for  to  disclose  one's 
hand  to  Peggy  often  met  with  the  most  unex- 
pected results,  as  Lady  Metcalfe  knew  by  ex- 
perience. Nor  did  the  real  reason  penetrate  to 
her  mind  even  after  her  arrival  at  Lavender, 
when  she  found  Hugh  Quentin  already  en- 
sconced there,  and  became  aware,  too,  of  his  dis- 
position to  monopolize  her. 

Peggy  enjoyed  staying  at  Lavender;  she  had 
seldom  been  there  without  her  mother  or  Peter 
before,  and  she  felt  a  pleasurable  little  sense  of 
independence  at  the  prospect.  The  little  crowd 
of  people  who  had  assembled  there  for  the  fes- 
tivities were  nearly  all  strangers  to  her;  the  only 
tolerably  familiar  face  among  them  was  Hugh 
Quentin,  who  had  been  at  Oxford  with  Peter, 
and  whom  she  had  met  many  times  during  the 
Eights'  week  last  summer.  She  had  gone  there 
under  Diana's  wing,  and  Lady  Maddinard  had 
reported  favorably  to  Beatrice  upon  the  im- 
jpression  Peggy  had  undoubtedly  made. 

Lady  Charsley  was  a  pretty  blonde  woman 
88 


THE  REST  HOUSE  89 

of  twenty-five.  The  first  brilliancy  of  her  youth 
had  faded  a  little,  for  she  had  been  delicate  since 
her  marriage.  She  was  very  tall  and  slender. 
They  all  thought  it  was  such  a  pity  Peggy  should 
be  so  small;  it  gave  her  such  a  childish  look. 

The  babies  were  darlings.  There  was  Ethne— 
a  dainty,  golden-haired  creature  of  five;  she 
looked  like  a  doll,  Peggy  thought.  Next  came 
Jack,  who  was  a  year  younger.  The  baby,  who 
was  only  a  year  old,  was  a  faithful  reproduction 
of  Ethne;  her  name  was  Verena.  Beatrice  was 
passionately  devoted  to  them,  Jack  especially 
being  the  idol  of  the  house.  His  parents  wor- 
shiped him.  Peggy  preferred  Ethne,  who  had 
gentle,  affectionate  ways.  It  seemed  to  her  some- 
times that  Lord  Charsley  scarcely  counted  at 
all.  He  was  a  bald,  red-faced  man  of  about 
forty,  very  good-natured,  devoted  to  his  wife 
and  with  a  cheery,  rather  boisterous  manner. 

Beatrice  was  very  indulgent  to  the  babies ;  she 
never  scolded  them  and  never  allowed  them  to  be 
punished  or  threatened.  They  were  very  good 
and  tractable,  and  when  they  appeared  down- 
stairs their  behavior  was  perfect  and  indeed 
almost  arrogant  in  its  dignity. 

Lady  Charsley  welcomed  her  sister  warmly, 
kissing  her  on  both  cheeks  and  saying  how  well 
she  looked.  But  they  no  longer  felt  like  sisters 
or  even  intimate  friends;  it  seemed  to  Peggy 
that  all  Beatrice's  new  life  and  interests  made 
a  wide  gulf  between  them.  She  was  distressed  at 
the  thought  and  longed  to  recover  something  of 
the  old  intimacy.  But  Beatrice  was  quite  out  of 
her  reach.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  forgotten  the 


90  THE  REST  HOUSE 

old  Mildon  days,  so  absorbed  was  she  in  her  chil- 
dren. Peggy  thought  she  had  changed  more 
than  Diana. 

Once  when  they  were  alone  Beatrice  tried  to 
draw  her  out  upon  the  subject  of  the  Rest  House, 
but  Peggy  was  wary  in  her  replies,  and  exhibited 
a  baffling  reticence.  Lady  Charsley  thought  her 
mother  had  made  a  fuss  about  nothing,  and  that 
the  impression  must  have  been  less  profound  than 
she  had  imagined.  There  was  no  chance  of 
Peggy  disobeying  her  while  she  was  at  Lavender ; 
there  was  not  a  Catholic  church  within  miles ;  the 
nearest,  a  private  chapel  at  Bargrove  belonging 
to  Mrs.  Dalton,  was  quite  six  miles  away;  and 
Beatrice  was  not  at  all  intimate  with  the 
Daltons. 

Peggy  was  really  quite  passable-looking  now, 
Beatrice  thought,  in  that  slight,  dark,  pale  way; 
her  clothes  were  charming;  she  could  talk  in- 
telligently enough  if  she  chose,  but  she  was  quiet 
and  lacking  in  animation  and  gaiety,  and  her 
manner  was  grave  and  ungirlish.  If  she  in- 
tended to  marry  Quentin  her  behavior  was  cer- 
tainly perfect;  she  was  elusive,  quietly  resisting 
his  tendency  to  monopolize  her;  when  they  met 
she  was  friendly,  but  utterly  unembarrassed. 

"She  doesn't  give  Quentin  much  of  a  show!" 
remarked  Lord  Charsley  to  his  wife  one  evening 
in  private.  "Does  she  mean  to  have  him?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Beatrice  was  obliged  to  con- 
fess. "I  haven't  talked  to  her  about  it.  I  didn't 
know,  you  see,  how  she  would  take  it."  She  fell 
back  on  the  old  formula.  "Peggy  has  always 
been  tiresome!" 


THE  BEST  HOUSE  91 

"Well,  she's  a  fine-looking  girl,"  said  Lord 
Charsky  with  a  good-natured  grin.  "Quentin'U 
be  lucky  if  he  gets  her!" 

"Fine-looking?"  repeated  Beatrice.  For  her 
Peggy  had  always  been  the  ugly  duckling,  and 
she  still  clung  unconsciously  to  the  Mildon 
standards. 

"If  she  doesn't  take  Hugh  she  may  get  some 
one  much  better.  I  shoukln't  rush  her  into  it  if 
I  were  you,  Beatrice.  I  suppose  she'll  have 
the  same  dot  as  the  rest  of  you,  although  she  is 
the  youngest?" 

"I'm  sure  my  father  will  do  what  is  quite  just," 
said  Beatrice  with  a  little  touch  of  hauteur,  "if 
Peggy  makes  a  marriage  that  he  approves  of." 

Hugh  Quentin  had  come  with  another  Oxford 
friend  of  his  own  and  Peter's,  a  Mr.  Hollo  Carter. 
Mr.  Henry  Sacheverell  had  brought  his  wife, 
Lady  PhiHppa;  they  were  a  young  couple  re- 
cently married  and  very  much  in  love.  Violet 
Hawthorn,  a  tall,  dark  girl  with  an  independent, 
dominating  manner,  came  alone.  Rollo  Cartel- 
showed  her  the  greatest  attention,  although  it  was 
rumored  that  she  had  twice  refused  to  marry 
him.  Apparently  this  did  not  interfere  at  all 
with  their  intimate  friendship.  They  played  golf 
together  nearly  all  day.  Lord  Charsley's  eldest 
sister,  who  was  many  years  his  senior,  brought 
her  girl,  who  was  just  out,  a  timid,  shy,  rather 
plain  girl  called  Ella.  Peggy  felt  a  little  sorry 
for  her,  she  seemed  lonely  and  rather  friendless 
and  her  mother  snubbed  her.  Lady  Trowhaven 
was  an  immense,  majestic  woman  who  looked 
capable  of  crushing  any  one.  She  seemed  to 


92  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Peggy  to  be  a  kind  of  super-Olympian,  and 
Ella,  whose  personal  appearance  resembled  that 
of  a  white  mouse,  had  yielded  utterly,  and  was 
reduced  to  a  submission  that  might  be  called 
groveling.  She  hardly  opened  her  lips  in  her 
mother's  presence. 

They  had  all  assembled  on  Saturday  after- 
noon, and  the  Hunt  Ball  was  fixed  up  for  the 
following  Tuesday.  That  night  just  before 
they  went  up  to  bed  Peggy  heard  Beatrice  say 
to  Lady  Philippa: 

"But  you'll  be  back  in  time  for  luncheon,  I 
hope,  Philly?" 

"Oh,  yes,  thank  you.  We  shall  have  our 
breakfast  at  the  Daltons,  and  come  back  here 
very  soon  afterward." 

"It's  such  a  long  way  to  go  on  these  dark,  cold 
winter  mornings,"  said  Beatrice,  with  a  touch 
of  protest  in  her  voice. 

"Yes,  but  we  brought  the  motor  on  purpose 
and  one  doesn't  like  to  miss,"  said  Lady  Phi- 
lippa. 

"Mr.  Sacheverell's  going  with  you?"  asked 
Beatrice. 

"Oh,  yes.  Henry  always  comes.  And  Mrs. 
Dalton  especially  invited  him." 

Beatrice  laughed  good-humoredly. 

"You'll  never  be  happy,  Philly,  till  you've 
roped  your  Henry  safely  in!" 

Peggy  was  watching  them  almost  involuntar- 
ily, and  she  could  not  help  noticing  that  at  these 
words  a  great  change  came  over  Lady  Philippa's 
face.  She  flushed,  and  her  eyes  became  so  bright 
that  one  could  fancv  that  there  were  tears  in 


THE  REST  HOUSE  93 

them.  She  dropped  her  voice,  and  looking  very 
earnestly  at  Beatrice,  she  said: 

"So  many,  many  people  are  praying  for  him. 
And  he's  ever  so  much  nearer  now  than  when  we 
first  married!" 

What  did  she  mean?  Peggy  desired  almost 
passionately  to  learn  the  import  of  this  conver- 
sation. Clearly  it  was  something  that  touched 
the  pretty  little  bride  very  closely  indeed.  What 
was  this  precious  gift  she  desired  that  her  hus- 
band might  possess?  Was  it  anything  connected 
with  religion?  She  felt  almost  certain  that  it 
must  be.  She  longed  to  talk  to  Lady  Philippa. 

Suddenly  Beatrice  turned  and  saw  Peggy 
standing  there,  and  an  expression  of  annoyance 
came  over  her  face. 

"What  are  you  doing  there,  Peggy?"  she  said 
in  quite  a  severe  tone.  "I  did  not  know  you  were 
there.  You  mustn't  stand  about  in  that  silent, 
silly  way.  Go  over  there  and  talk  to  Ella — she 
is  looking  miserably  bored  and  out  of  it." 

Peggy  turned  crimson  and  moved  across  the 
room.  She  had  hoped  that  when  Beatrice  had  gone 
she  could  have  had  a  word  with  Lady  Philippa 
quite  alone.  But  after  all,  that  would  have  been 
impossible,  for  the  next  moment  Henry  Sache- 
verell  joined  his  wife  and  Beatrice,  who  soon  left 
them  alone  together.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  they 
were  absorbed  in  each  other.  Why  were  they 
going  to  motor  out  before  breakfast  on  the  fol- 
lowing day?  Who  was  Mrs.  Dalton?  Peggy 
had  never  heard  Beatrice  mention  her. 

Peggy  had  not  been  talking  to  Ella  very  long 
when  Hugh  Quentin  came  across  to  that  end  of 


94  THE  REST  HOUSE 

the  room  and  sat  down  near  them.  Presently 
Lady  Trowharen  called  her  daughter  away  to 
play  bridge,  and  Peggy  was  left  alone  with 
Hugh. 

"Do  you  know  a  Mrs.  Dalton  who  lives  not 
far  from  here?"  she  inquired,  thinking  he  might 
be  able  to  throw  some  light  on  the  conversation, 
as  he  knew  the  neighborhood  well. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  know  her  a  little,"  said  Quentin 
carelessly;  "I've  stayed  there  once.  Young  Dal- 
ton was  up  at  Oxford  with  me.  It's  rather  a 
weird  house  to  stay  in,  though — they're  Roman 
Catholics  and  have  a  chapel  of  their  own,  and 
they  seem  to  spend  half  their  time  in  it." 

Peggy  turned  quite  pink  and  drew  in  her 
breath  sharply.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  always 
really  understood  what  Lady  Philippa  had 
meant  when  she  had  said  with  such  eager  earnest- 
ness that  "Henry  was  much  nearer  now  than 
when  they  were  first  married."  She  must  be  a 
Catholic,  and  to-morrow  she  was  going  to  motor 
over  to  the  Daltons  to  hear  Mass,  as  it  was  Sun- 
day. 

Peggy  felt  suddenly  excited,  and  she  was  able 
to  recover  something  of  those  feelings  and  im- 
pressions she  had  experienced  at  the  Rest  House. 

She  looked  across  the  room  at  Lady  Philippa, 
who  was  still  sitting  beside  her  husband,  and  she 
felt  an  envy  of  her  so  deep  and  profound  that 
it  pierced  her  heart  like  a  sword.  She  thought 
to  herself,  "Oh,  if  I  could  only  go  with  her. 
But  Beatrice  would  never  let  me — Beatrice  was 
angry  with  me  because  I  heard  what  they  were 
saying." 


THE  REST  HOUSE  95 

It  was  clear  that  Beatrice  had  not  intended  her 
to  know  that  Lady  Philippa  was  a  Catholic. 

"So  many  people  are  praying  for  him!"  There 
had  been  something  wonderfully  beautiful  and 
touching  in  the  way  Lady  Philippa  had  said  those 
words.  It  had  been  such  a  simple,  earnest,  and 
withal  profoundly  loving  little  speech.  Now  that 
Peggy  understood,  it  touched  her  very  heart. 
Evidently  she  had  the  same  ideals  as  those  that 
prevailed  at  the  Rest  House ;  she  seemed  to  speak 
the  very  language  that  the  Morfords  had  spoken. 
Peggy  could  hardly  restrain  herself  from  getting 
up  and  going  boldly  across  the  room  to  speak  to 
Lady  Philippa. 

Once  she  even  contemplated  finding  out  the 
hour  of  their  departure  and  appearing  down- 
stairs at  that  time  and  entreating  Lady  Philippa 
to  permit  her  to  accompany  them.  But  this  mad 
imagining  was  not  one  that  could  possibly  ma- 
terialize. These  people  were  practically  un- 
known to  her:  she  could  not  possibly  force  her- 
self upon  them  without  some  kind  of  explanation, 
which  she  dared  not  bring  herself  to  give.  They 
might  even  ask  Beatrice's  permission  to  take  her, 
and  Peggy  felt  certain  from  her  sister's  manner 
just  now  that  she  was  fully  cognizant  of  that  in- 
cident at  the  Rest  House.  It  was  more  than 
likely  that  Lady  Metcalfe  had  coupled  the  in- 
formation with  a  word  of  warning  about  Peggy. 
She  sighed,  and  answered  Hugh  at  random. 
She  wished  he  would  get  up  and  go  away.  She 
looked  round  the  room.  Rollo  Carter  and  Violet 
Hawthorn  were  playing  poker  patience  at  a  little 
table  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  There  was 


96  THE  REST  HOUSE 

a  rubber  of  bridge  going  on  in  the  small  drawing- 
room  beyond,  and  she  could  hear  Lady  Trow- 
haven's  voice  announcing  "Two  Royals"  as  if  she 
defied  any  one  to  outbid  her.  The  rest  of  the 
company  had  sorted  themselves  into  groups. 
Hugh  had  refused  to  play  bridge;  he  preferred 
to  remain  and  talk  to  Peggy  Metcalfe,  although 
she  was  much  more  serious  and  subdued  than 
when  he  had  seen  her  at  Oxford  in  the  midst  of 
the  Eights'  festivities. 

No  one  else  present  was  a  patch  on  her,  he 
thought  to  himself.  Violet  Hawthorn,  much  be- 
paragraphed  in  the  halfpenny  papers  and  con- 
sidered a  beauty,  was  not  in  his  eyes  pretty  at  all. 
She  was  striking-looking  in  that  dark,  imperious 
way,  but  her  independent  air  and  almost  insolent 
self-possession  did  not  correspond  with  Hugh's 
ideal  of  womanhood  at  all.  He  did  not  approve 
of  the  way  in  which  she  "carried  on"  with  Rollo 
Carter,  for  all  the  world  as  if  they  were  engaged 
to  be  married.  There  was  no  question  of  an  en- 
gagement, and  they  were  both  quite  well  off,  yet 
they  behaved  like  an  engaged  couple  and  were 
absorbed  in  each  other's  society.  Rollo  fetched 
and  carried  for  her  in  a  way  that  was  almost 
degrading,  commented  Hugh,  who  was  fond  of 
his  friend  and  hated  to  see  him  treated  in  this 
way.  Lady  Philippa  Sacheverell  was  very 
pretty  and  charming-looking,  but  Peggy  put  her 
quite  into  the  shade.  Hugh  was  encouraging 
himself  to  fall  in  love  with  the  youngest  Miss 
Metcalfe.  He  was  very  fond  of  Peter,  and  had 
always  heard  a  good  deal  from  him  about  the 
little  sister  at  home.  The  Metcalfes  could  hardly 


THE  REST  HOUSE  97 

now  be  called  self-made,  since  the  Firm  was  three 
generations  old  and  both  Peggy's  sisters  had 
made  such  brilliant  marriages.  Hugh  was  a  very 
prudent  young  man;  he  approached  matrimony 
with  caution,  but  he  was  none  the  less  deliberately 
approaching  it.  Once  he  had  been  passionately 
in  love  with  the  beautiful  young  Irish  actress, 
Deirdre  O'Mara,  and  when  she  refused  to  marry 
him  he  had  been  quite  broken-hearted  for  at  least 
a  year.  Afterward  he  began  to  perceive  the  wis- 
dom of  Providence  in  withholding  from  the 
young  at  least  the  fulfilment  of  their  heart's  de- 
sire. Such  a  marriage  would  have  been  dis- 
astrous to  a  man  who  wished  to  shine  in  the  politi- 
ca]  world.  Deirdre  was  only  a  peasant  girl, 
beautiful  and  charming,  but  quite  unfit  to  be  the 
wife  of  an  ambitious  man.  There  was  something 
about  Peggy  that  had  reminded  him,  in  the  early 
days  of  their  acquaintance,  of  that  lost  love- 
something  in  the  dark  sweep  of  the  hair,  in  the 
shadowy  brown  eyes  so  full  of  soft  mystery.  He 
had  often  thought  of  Peggy  during  the  months 
that  had  elapsed  since  their  last  meeting,  and 
he  had  wished  to  see  her  again.  Now  he  felt  that 
his  mind  was  practically  made  up.  The  marriage 
would  be  in  every  way  suitable.  He  really  did 
not  need  Peggy's  money,  for  he  was  a  rich  man 
and  had  a  fine  old  property  in  Kent,  still  money 
was  always  useful. 

Peggy,  who  feared  that  her  inattention  must 
have  seemed  almost  rude,  tried  to  make  up  for 
it  by  talking  very  agreeably  to  him  for  a  little 
longer  than  she  might  have  otherwise  done.  She 
asked  no  more  questions  about  the  Daltons,  and 


98  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Hugh  had  left  that  subject  and  was  telling  her 
about  Westcombe,  his  place  in  Kent,  and  of 
some  improvements  he  intended  to  make  there, 
adding  a  hope  that  some  day  she  and  Peter  would 
come  and  pay  him  a  visit. 

"Thank  you  very  much — I  should  like  to 
come,"  said  Peggy,  and  she  put  sufficient  eager- 
ness and  enthusiasm  into  her  voice  to  raise 
Hugh's  hopes  to  the  very  skies. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PEGGY  did  not  see  the  Sacheverells  on  the  fol- 
lowing day  until  luncheon,  and  she  had  no 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  Lady  Philippa  until 
that  meal  was  over.  She  did  not  sit  near  her,  and 
she  fancied  that  Beatrice  had  perhaps  arranged 
that  she  should  not  do  so.  Lady  Charsley  was 
evidently  on  her  guard,  and  Peggy  felt  that  she 
had  been  compelled  to  force  her  point  a  little 
when  she  met  Lady  Philippa  by  chance  in  the 
hall  and  asked  her  timidly  if  she  would  come  to 
her  room  with  her  for  a  few  minutes. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  spoken  to  her, 
and  Lady  Philippa  looked  a  trifle  surprised  at 
the  request.  Until  then  she  had  hardly  noticed 
her  hostess's  younger  sister,  and  she  wondered 
what  on  earth  she  could  want  to  say  to  her. 

"I  can  come  for  a  very  few  minutes  if  you 
like,"  said  Lady  Philippa.  "I  have  promised  to 
go  for  a  walk  with  Henry,  so  I  shall  have  to  go 
and  put  on  my  things  almost  at  once." 

Although  it  was  not  very  promising,  it  was 
better  than  nothing,  and  Peggy  led  the  way  to 
her  own  sitting-room.  She  occupied  the  little 
suite  which  Beatrice  always  kept  for  her  own 
family:  it  was  in  rather  a  remote  part  of  the 
house,  but  the  rooms  were  pretty  and  looked  out 
on  to  the  old-fashioned  walled  garden,  where  in 
summer  there  was  a  famous  herbaceous  border, 
now  indicated  only  by  a  few  dry  stalks  and  sod- 
den, shriveled  leaves. 

Lady  Philippa  sat  down  in  an  armchair  near 

99 


100  THE  REST  HOUSE 

the  fire,  waiting  for  Peggy  to  speak.    The  girl 
looked  nervous  and  hesitating. 

"Did  you  want  to  ask  me  anything?"  inquired 
Lady  Philippa  after  a  short  pause  in  which 
Peggy  wondered  how  she  should  begin,  and 
whether,  indeed,  she  would  find  courage  to  begin 
at  all. 

"Yes,  please,"  said  Peggy.  Her  breath  came 
in  short  and  quick  gasps.  "Dreadfully,"  she 
added. 

Lady  Philippa  glanced  at  the  clock  with  a 
touch  of  impatience.  She  was  preoccupied  with 
thoughts  of  her  husband;  she  did  not  want  to 
keep  him  waiting.  And  the  girl,  if  she  really  had 
anything  to  say,  was  obviously  too  nervous  to 
say  it. 

"Couldn't  you  have  asked  your  sister?"  she 
said. 

"Oh,  no — Beatrice  knows  nothing  about  it- 
she  couldn't  help  me  at  all." 

"I  am  not  fond  of  confidences,"  said  Lady 
Philippa;  "if  it  is  something  about  yourself— 
something  private  that  you  can't  tell  your  sis- 
ter— I  think  I  would  rather  not  hear  it." 

Although  she  was  not  many  years  older  than 
Peggy,  Lady  Philippa  had  a  good  deal  of  de- 
cision of  character,  and  she  imagined,  too,  that 
Peggy  was  much  younger  than  she  really  was — 
about  seventeen,  in  fact. 

"It  is  this.  You're  a  Catholic,  aren't  you? 
It's  that  that  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about!'' 

"Yes,  I  am  a  Catholic,"  said  Lady  Philippa. 

Peggy  looked  at  her  in  desperation  and  said: 
"I  want  to  be  one  more  than  I  can  ever  tell  vou!" 


THE  REST  HOUSE  101 

Then  all  reticence  vanished.  Lady  Philippa 
was  no  longer  an  unwilling  or  reluctant  listener. 
Her  face  softened  a  little,  and  although  she  said 
nothing,  Peggy  felt  encouraged  to  proceed.  She 
related  rapidly  in  a  few  words  and  with  uncon- 
scious dramatic  effect  the  story  of  her  adventure 
at  the  Rest  House,  of  her  first  and  profound 
initiation  into  the  mysteries  of  the  Catholic  Faith. 
Frederick  Morford  played  but  a  slight  and  in- 
significant part  in  the  recital,  his  name  was  not 
mentioned  and  Peggy  only  referred  to  him  occa- 
sionally as  the  son  of  the  house. 

Lady  Philippa's  attention  was  thoroughly 
aroused.  She  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt  the 
girl's  sincerity.  There  was  something  remark- 
able and  unusual  in  the  little  history,  and  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  narrative  touched  her.  It  was  like 
a  little  miracle — but  then  was  not  every  con- 
version in  its  own  way  a  miracle? 

"How  old  are  you?"  she  inquired,  when  Peggy 
stopped. 

"I  am  twenty." 

"I  suppose  you  will  have  to  wait  until  you  are  of 
age  before  you  can  take  any  definite  step.  Wait- 
ing won't  hurt  you;  it  will  test  and  prove  your 
perseverance.  And  you  are  very  young — you 
may  change  your  mind." 

"I  can  never  change  my  mind — I  have  made 
a  promise,"  said  Peggy  Metcalfe. 

"Your  mother  will  object,  perhaps?" 

"Yes — she  was  annoyed  when  I  told  her  about 
my  going  to  Mass  and  Benediction — she  wanted 
me  to  promise  that  I  wouldn't  go  into  a  Catholic 
church.  Lady  Philippa,  I  feel  starving." 


102  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Lady  Philippa  rose  and  with  an  impulse  of 
kindness  she  laid  her  hand  on  Peggy's  shoulder. 
She  was  not  a  demonstrative  woman,  but  the 
glimpse  into  that  young  and  ardent  soul  had 
stirred  her  sympathy  and  even  her  affection. 

"My  dear,  I  will  think  it  over.  But  I  don't 
see  how  I  can  possibly  help  you  yet.  Later  on, 
perhaps,  when  you  are  of  age.  But  if  I  can  I 
will  go  over  to  the  Daltons  again  while  I  am 
here  and  consult  Father  Dominic  about  you." 

She  saw  by  the  clock  that  she  must  have  kept 
Henry  waiting  quite  ten  minutes.  Such  a  thing 
had  never  happened  before.  She  was  hurrying 
out  of  the  room  when  the  door  opened  and 
Beatrice  entered. 

"Oh,  Philly!  I  didn't  know  you  were  here. 
Mr.  Sacheverell's  waiting  for  you.  I  came  up 
to  look  for  Peggy.  They're  all  going  for  a  walk 
up  to  the  Beacon,  Peggy,  and  Hugh's  been  ask- 
ing for  you." 

"Oh,  Beatrice,  I  am  tired.  I  don't  really  want 
to  go  for  a  walk,"  pleaded  Peggy. 

But  Lady  Charsley  spoke  with  an  air  of  brisk 
decision  not  unlike  her  mother's: 

"What  nonsense,  Peggy!  You  can't  possibly 
stay  moping  up  here."  She  turned  to  Lady 
Philippa  and  said  good-humoredly,  "You 
mustn't  let  Peggy  bore  you,  Philly." 

"Oh,  she  hasn't  bored  me  at  all,"  said  Lady 
Philippa,  smiling  kindly  at  Peggy;  "we  have 
been  making  friends  and  I  hope  some  day  she 
will  come  and  pay  us  a  visit  in  town." 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  two 
sisters  together. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  103 

"I  don't  think  mother  would  care  about  your 
going  to  the  Sacheverells,"  said  Beatrice.  "Of 
course,  it's  a  very  nice  house  and  all  that  and 
you  would  meet  nice  people,  but  Philly  is  a  Cath- 
olic and  a  dreadfully  priest-ridden  little  person. 
I  believe  the  Sacheverells  were  quite  shocked 
at  the  things  poor  Henry  had  to  promise  when 
he  married  her — such  tyrannous  conditions.  I 
believe  they  wanted  him  to  draw  back,  for  really 
it  was  no  marriage  for  him.  Although  the 
Perrymouths  are  such  an  old  family,  they 
couldn't  give  Philly  a  farthing,  they  are  so  mis- 
erably poor.  But  he  was  so  much  in  love  with 
her  that  he  utterly  refused  to  give  her  up,  and 
promised  everything  they  told  him  to.  Such  a 
pity,  for  their  children — if  they  ever  have  any— 
will  all  have  to  be  brought  up  as  Roman  Cath- 
olics!" 

"Perhaps  he  will  become  one,  too,"  said  Peggy 
softly. 

Beatrice  looked  at  her  keenly.  She  longed  to 
examine  her,  but  she  felt  sure  that  Peggy  would 
parry  her  questions.  Her  silence  on  the  subject 
of  the  Rest  House  was  not  due  to  indifference— 
of  that  Lady  Charsley  now  felt  quite  sure. 
Peggy  had  some  deeper  reason  for  her  reticence. 
She  said  quietly: 

"I  really  don't  think  mother  would  care  for 
you  to  become  very  intimate  with  Philly  Sache- 
verell.  Of  course,  she  is  a  friend  of  mine  and 
I've  known  her  for  years,  but  I  know  she  has 
done  some  very  injudicious  things.  Catholics 
often  do,"  she  added.  "Did  she  ask  to  come  up 
here  with  you,  Peggy?" 


104  THE  REST  HOUSE 

"No;  I  asked  her  to  come,"  said  Peggy. 

"She  must  have  thought  it  very  odd  of  you 
when  you  hardly  know  her,"  said  Beatrice. 

"I  think  she  did — at  first,"  said  Peggy. 

Beatrice  went  away  feeling  a  little  baffled,  but 
before  leaving  the  room  she  repeated  her  in- 
junction to  Peggy  to  get  ready  for  the  walk, 
and  her  sister  made  no  second  remonstrance,  but 
went  into  her  bedroom  and  put  on  her  hat  and  a 
long  fur  coat.  The  day  was  cold  and  there  was 
a  good  deal  of  wind,  and  Peggy  dreaded  the  long 
expedition  to  the  Beacon — a  favorite  Sunday 
afternoon  walk  of  Lord  Charsley's.  He  was 
fond  of  victimizing  his  guests  by  entreating  them 
to  accompany  him,  and  to-day  few  had  the 
strength  or  determination  to  resist.  But  the 
Sacheverells  had  gone  off  together  for  a  tramp, 
and  Hollo  Carter  and  Violet  Hawthorn,  careless 
of  all  the  unwritten  rules  of  the  house,  were  play- 
ing golf  together  in  the  Park. 

Beatrice  remained  at  home,  and  she  was  glad 
to  be  alone  and  think  over  this  affair  of  Peggy. 
She  was  a  very  conscientious  person,  and  this 
interview  that  she  had  surprised  between  her 
sister  and  Lady  Philippa  had  given  her  consider- 
able food  for  thought.  She  had  the  feeling  that 
Peggy  was  conducting  an  intrigue  under  her  very 
nose,  and  with  a  determination  of  which  she 
knew  her  to  be  thoroughly  capable.  If  Philippa 
chose  to  try  on  any  of  her  imprudent  proselytiz- 
ing ways  she  would  find  in  Peggy  a  ripe  and 
ready  victim.  Beatrice  felt  that  she  must  step  in 
at  all  costs  and  "save"  Peggy.  She  owed  this 


THE  REST  HOUSE  105 

to  her  mother,  who  had  given  her  a  word  of 
warning  that  after  all  had  been  very  necessary. 
It  had  been  impossible  for  her  to  put  off  the 
Sacheverells,  for  they  had  already  received  and 
accepted  her  invitation  before  she  had  received 
her  mother's  letter  about  Peggy.  It  would  be 
terrible,  indeed,  if  the  girl  showed  any  continued 
obstinacy  on  the  point,  and  of  course  it  was  very 
significant  that  she  should  have  refused  to  make 
that  promise  about  not  entering  a  Catholic 
church.  If  she  did  take  any  disastrous  step  of 
the  kind  while  she  was  still  too  young  to  know 
all  that  it  might  involve,  it  would  simply  ruin  all 
her  chances  of  marrying  Hugh  Quentin.  Bea- 
trice had  set  her  heart  on  this  marriage.  She 
liked  Hugh  very  much,  thought  him  clever  and 
ambitious  and  well  able  to  manage  Peggy.  And 
she  and  Diana  had  always  had  the  dreadful  fear 
that  Peggy  might  take  it  into  her  head  to  marry 
some  utterly  undesirable  person.  She  was  so 
unlike  the  rest  of  them!  Lady  Metcalfe  also 
shared  this  fear,  and  she  was  very  careful  not 
to  let  Peggy  go  anywhere  alone  unless  it  was  to 
stay  with  one  of  her  sisters.  There  was  no  trust- 
ing Peggy!  And  even  though  she  was  now 
grown  up,  that  obstinate  tactlessness  of  hers 
seemed  to  deepen  rather  than  diminish. 

Well,  she  should  have  little  opportunity  of 
talking  to  Philly  Sacheverell — Beatrice  made  up 
her  mind  to  that!  If  necessary  she  would  give 
Philly  a  hint  on  the  subject  and  tell  her  that 
Peggy  was  fanciful,  even  a  little  hysterical.  It 
would  show  Philly  not  to  attach  too  much  im- 


106  THE  REST  HOUSE 

portance  to  any  unwise,  indiscreet  thing  Peggy 
might  have  said  to  her. 

The  Hunt  Ball  was  a  very  brilliant  affair,  and 
even  Beatrice  was  obliged  to  admit  that  Peggy 
looked  charming  in  a  soft  white  charmeuse  dress 
and  a  string  of  pearls  round  her  slender  throat. 
She  wore  no  ornament  in  her  simply  arranged 
dark  hair.  Hugh  looked  at  her  with  evident  ap- 
proval. Although  he  had  not  seen  as  much  of 
Peggy  as  he  could  have  wished  in  these  past  few 
days,  she  had  always  been  very  agreeable  and 
pleasant  to  him  when  they  had  met,  and  he  was 
looking  eagerly  forward  to  the  dance,  which 
would  surely  give  them  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
much  more  of  each  other.  Hugh  thought  he  was 
making  progress  and  then  Lady  Charsley  was  so 
very  encouraging,  but  he  could  not  in  the  least 
tell  whether  he  had  made  a  favorable  impres- 
sion— or  indeed  any  impression  at  all — upon 
Peggy.  There  was  something  baffling  about  the 
girl,  in  those  little  hesitancies  and  silences  of  hers, 
in  the  reticence  of  her  manner  that  corresponded 
so  ill  with  the  childish  aspect  of  her  appearance. 
But  the  more  he  was  baffled  the  more  attracted  he 
became.  Certainly  he  intended  to  dance  a  great 
deal  with  Peggy  to-night. 

Beatrice  always  arrived  late,  and  dancing  was 
in  full  swing  when  she  disembarked  her  large 
party  at  the  Town  Hall.  Hugh,  who  looked  ex- 
tremely well  in  "pink,"  claimed  Peggy  at  once 
for  a  dance.  She  was  still  dancing  with  him  when 
she  became  suddenlv  aware  of  a  familiar  dark 
face  turned  toward  her,  and  of  two  dark  eyes 


THE  REST  HOUSE  107 

regarding  her  with  cold  scrutiny.  The  room 
seemed  to  swim  round  before  her  eyes  and  the 
very  music  sounded  faint  and  distant,  but  for 
the  grip  of  Hugh's  arm  she  thought  she  must 
have  fallen.  That  Frederick  Morford  should  be 
there  to-night  filled  her  with  a  sense  of  faintness, 
almost  of  terror.  Her  emotion  at  seeing  him  sur- 
prised even  herself.  That  he  should  actually  be 
dancing  with  Philippa  Sacheverell  filled  her  with 
a  pang  of  envy.  She  remembered  Peter  had 
doubted  the  advisability  of  inviting  him  to  Mil- 
don.  She  was  glad  that  she  had  not  mentioned 
his  name  to  Lady  Philippa. 

When  they  paused  Peggy  found  that  her  limbs 
were  trembling ;  a  strange,  unaccountable  excite- 
ment had  taken  possession  of  her.  Would  Fred- 
erick come  up  and  claim  her  acquaintance? 
Would  he  ask  her  to  dance  with  him  ?  Would  he 
discover  that  she  and  Lady  Philippa  knew  each 
other — formed  part  of  the  same  party  to-night? 
Peggy's  mind  was  so  full  of  these  thoughts  that 
she  scarcely  heard  what  Hugh  was  saying  to  her. 
The  music  stopped,  and  they  were  just  going  to 
leave  the  room  when  Lady  Philippa  and  her 
partner  advanced  toward  them. 

Peggy's  face  was  almost  deathly  pale. 

"I  think  you  and  Mr.  Morford  know  each 
other,"  said  Lady  Philippa  in  her  careless  way. 

Peggy  looked  up  and  met  his  eyes.  He  did 
not  smile  as  he  shook  hands  with  her  and  asked 
her  for  a  dance.  She  answered  in  a  low,  nervous 
tone — so  low  that  he  had  to  stoop  a  little  to  hear 
the  words.  The  knowledge  that  he  knew  every 
detail  of  her  experience  at  the  Rest  House  filled 


108  THE  REST  HOUSE 

her  with  a  dreadful  timidity  that  seemed  to  rob 
her  of  all  her  self-possession.  They  were  almost 
strangers,  and  yet  she  had  given  him  this  intimate 
insight  into  her  very  heart.  It  was  as  if  they 
possessed  in  common  a  secret  so  profound  that  it 
seemed  to  hold  something  of  guilt.  She  moved 
away  now  with  Hugh,  who  was  getting  a  little 
impatient.  He  had  observed  her  look  of  shrink- 
ing fear  as  this  dark,  odd-looking  young  man  had 
approached  them;  he  had  noticed,  too,  how  low 
her  voice  had  been  when  she  answered  him,  and 
how  deadly  pale  she  had  become.  Hugh  had 
never  seen  her  so  shy  and  embarrassed  before. 
She  had  always  seemed  to  him  quite  self-pos- 
sessed, although  she  was  so  quiet  and  grave. 

Peggy,  indeed,  was  hardly  aware  of  what  she 
had  said  to  Morford,  for  a  lump  had  risen  in  her 
throat,  threatening  to  close  it  up,  and  her  lips 
were  so  dry  she  could  scarcely  articulate. 

"Who's  that  chap  ?"  inquired  Hugh,  and  there 
was  something  of  denigration  in  his  voice. 

"A  Mr.  Morford,"  said  Peggy. 

"Morford?  Oh,  I  suppose  he's  one  of  Mrs. 
Dalton's  lot,  as  he  seems  to  know  Lady  Philippa. 
These  Catholics  always  hang  together.  I  im- 
agine that's  why  they  get  hold  of  such  queer, 
backwoodsy  people." 

Peggy  was  silent.  There  was  something  con- 
temptuous and  disdainful  in  Hugh's  tone.  And 
even  in  that  one  shy  glance  Peggy  had  bestowed 
upon  Morford  she  had  become  aware  that  he  was 
less  well  dressed  than  the  men  of  Beatrice's 
party — than  Hugh  Quentin,  for  instance;  he 
had  not  the  same  soigne  look;  his  clothes  were 


THE  REST  HOUSE  109 

perhaps  less  new,  less  well  cut.  He  was  very 
tall  and  had  an  air  of  strength,  but  this  also  made 
him  look  a  trifle  uncouth.  He  lacked  that  pol- 
ished look  which  Hugh  possessed  in  such  per- 
fection. But  he  was  not  queer — not  backwoodsy ! 
Peggy's  heart  passionately  denied  this  calumny. 

"Mrs.  Dalton  always  brings  a  menagerie,"  said 
Hugh,  whose  jealousy,  to  tell  the  truth,  had  been 
somewhat  keenly  aroused  by  that  curious,  ill- 
suppressed  emotion  Peggy  had  betrayed  at  the 
approach  of  this  man  Morford.  Hugh  had  never 
heard  his  name  before.  How  and  when  and 
where  had  Peggy  made  the  acquaintance  of  such 
a  weird-looking  person? 

Peggy  had  the  good  sense  to  keep  her  temper ; 
she  was  intuitively  aware  that  Hugh  was  an- 
noyed about  something,  and  felt  that  Morford 
must  in  some  way  have  aroused  his  suspicions. 

"Have  you  known  him  long?"  he  asked  irri- 
tably, after  a  brief  pause. 

"Who?  Mr.  Morford?"  She  tried  to  speak 
his  name  carelessly.  "Oh,  no — we  met  for  the 
first  time  a  few  weeks  ago." 

"Where  did  you  meet  him?"  asked  Hugh.  He 
was  so  jealous  that  he  could  not  control  his  desire 
to  question  Peggy.  It  seemed  to  him  so  ex- 
traordinary that  she  should  know  this  peculiar- 
looking  man  who  did  not  look  at  all  as  if  he 
belonged  to  the  Metcalfes'  world, 

"In — in  Somersetshire,"  said  Peggy. 

Presently  they  went  back  to  the  ball-room. 
Peggy  joined  Beatrice,  who  was  surrounded  by 
a  little  group  of  friends,  important  county 
people.  She  was  always  popular  and  admired. 


110  THE  REST  HOUSE 

In  a  few  minutes  Peggy  saw  Morford  and  Lady 
Philippa  approaching  the  group. 

Again  her  heart  beat  with  that  suffocating  vio- 
lence. Morford  was  coming  to  claim  his  dance. 
She  hoped  that  Beatrice  would  not  notice  him. 
If  she  saw  Peggy  dancing  with  any  one  she  did 
not  know  she  would  be  certain  to  ask  who  he 
was. 

"I  think  this  is  our  dance,"  said  Frederick 
stiffly. 

He  towered  above  Peggy,  the  top  of  whose 
head  was  barely  on  a  level  with  his  shoulder.  His 
great  height  made  him  conspicuous ;  he  could  not 
possibly  escape  the  disapproving  scrutiny  of 
Lady  Charsley.  When  they  danced  Peggy  felt 
that  he  would  have  lifted  her  off  her  feet.  Mor- 
ford was  by  no  means  an  accomplished  dancer 
and  he  disliked  dancing ;  his  movements  were  not 
light  and  rhythmic  as  were  Hugh's.  But  Peggy 
had  the  sense  that  she  was  yielding  to  his  will  as 
he  bore  her  along;  he  whirled  her  whither  he 
would.  As  yet  they  had  not  exchanged  a  word. 

How  strange  to  find  him  here  in  this  gay 
throng — he  who  had  told  her  he  so  seldom  left  the 
Rest  House!  She  would  have  wondered  still 
more  had  she  been  able  to  penetrate  into  the  real 
motive  of  his  presence  there  to-night.  For  Mor- 
ford disliked  and  eschewed  gaieties;  he  had  no 
social  instincts  at  all;  he  felt  at  a  disadvantage 
among  wealthy  and  worldly  people,  and  he  re- 
garded almost  all  amusements  as  foolish  as  well 
as  contemptible.  But  Aloysius  Dalton  had  per- 
suaded him  to  come,  and  he  was  the  most  intimate 
friend  he  possessed  in  the  world.  They  had  been 


THE  REST  HOUSE  111 

at  Stonyhurst  together.  And  in  a  lesser  degree 
Morford  loved  his  friend's  mother,  who  had 
always  and  most  affectionately  welcomed  him  to 
her  house.  But  this  time  it  was  not  for  Ally 
Dalton's  sake  that  Morford  had  accepted  the  in- 
vitation. He  had  learned  from  Mary  that  Peggy 
was  a  sister  of  young  Lady  Charsley  at  Lav- 
ender— a  place  which  was  only  six  miles  from 
the  Daltons'  little  property.  There  was  just  a 
chance — a  mere  ghost  of  a  chance,  but  worth 
trying  for — that  he  might  meet  again  that  quiet, 
pale  girl  who  had  come  to  the  Rest  House  on  that 
winter  night.  He  wished  to  see  her  again.  It 
could  lead  to  nothing;  their  worlds  were  as  the 
poles  apart,  but  the  girl  had  aroused  his  inter- 
est. If  it  led  to  nothing  else,  another  meeting 
might  at  least  spoil  his  memory  of  her  and  give 
back  to  his  heart  its  old  and  jealously  guarded 
liberty.  Not  for  nothing  had  Peggy  Metcalfe 
offered  him  that  intimate  glimpse  of  the  pilgrim 
soul  in  her. 

"Don't  let  us  dance,"  he  said  suddenly  in  an 
abrupt  tone.  "I  know  I  dance  abominably." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply  he  led  her  out  of 
the  room,  and  sought  a  secluded  spot  at  the  far 
end  of  the  wide,  heated  corridor.  For  a  little 
while — perhaps  for  the  last  time  in  his  life — he 
would  be  alone  with  Peggy,  and  the  thought 
pierced  him  like  a  sword.  How  slight  and  slim 
and  fragile  she  was;  he  felt  he  could  have  lifted 
her  with  one  hand.  When  they  had  been  dancing 
she  had  seemed  as  thistledown  in  his  hands.  In 
the  silence  that  followed  Morford  inwardly  and 
silently  but  very  thoroughly  cursed  his  own  folly 


112  THE  REST  HOUSE 

for  venturing  here  to-night.  She  would  spoil  no 
memories  that  he  held  of  her;  rather  she  would 
impress  them  the  more  deeply  upon  his  heart  so 
that  it  would  be  a  thousand  times  more  difficult  to 
go  away  and  forget  her. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "how  have  you  been 
getting  on?" 

"I  have  not  been  very  happy,"  said  Peggy,  and 
her  voice  trembled  a  little.  It  was  useless  for 
her  to  try  to  talk  conventionally  to  Morford;  to 
her  he  seemed  like  a  master,  stern  and  harsh,  but 
able  to  teach  her  the  things  she  wished  to  know ; 
she  felt  like  a  willing  though  timid  pupil. 

"Why  have  you  not  been  happy?  Isn't  that 
very  foolish  of  you?"  he  asked. 

"My  mother  was  angry  when  I  told  her  about 
—your  chapel.  About  my  having  been  to  Mass 
and  Benediction.  She  wanted  me  to  promise 
never  to  go  inside  a  Catholic  church.  Oh,  I  have 
never  mentioned  it  since  to  any  one  until  I  spoke 
to  Lady  Philippa  last  Sunday.  And  she  thought 
I  had  better  do  nothing  until  I  came  of  age." 

"Do  you  mean  you  are  still  thinking  seriously 
of  it?"  he  asked,  and  his  dark  eyes  swept  her  face. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  thought  of  nothing 
else,"  said  Peggy;  "it  is  like  having  a  double  life 
when  your  thoughts  are  fixed  on  something  that 
has  no  connection  with  your  present  surround- 
ings." 

"Oh,  you  have  found  that,  too,  have  you?"  he 
said. 

"Yes,"  said  Peggy. 

"I  came  here  with  the  Daltofis  to-night,"  he 
said.  "Ally  Dalton  is  my  greatest  friend — the 


THE  REST  HOUSE  113 

only  really  intimate  friend  I  have.  We  were  at 
school  together.  But  he  doesn't  often  let  me  in 
for  this  kind  of  thing!"  He  went  on  speaking, 
for  he  saw  that  Peggy  was  now  only  controlling 
her  emotion  with  great  difficulty,  and  the  knowl- 
edge stirred  within  him  a  sensation  that  was  not 
wholly  free  from  pain  nor  wholly  removed  from 
an  insensate  desire  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and 
comfort  her.  Fool — fool — that  he  was !  To  her 
he  was  only  the  man  who  could  teach  her  the 
things  she  so  ardently  desired  to  know ;  to  whom 
she  could  speak  freely  of  her  wish  to  be  a 
Catholic. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  continued  Peggy,  in  a 
low,  troubled  tone,  "how  much — how  often  I  have 
thought  of  it  all.  You  can  hardly  realize  how 
ignorant  I  was,  but  until  you  told  me  I  had  no 
idea  what  it  was  that  Catholics  believed.  I  had 
heard  of  the  errors  of  Rome,  but  I  did  not  know 
what  was  meant  by  them.  My  mother  always 
forbade  any  religious  discussions.  And  now  I 
want  to  be  a  Catholic.  I  have  even  had  the 
strange  feeling  that  I  am  one!" 

Frederick  Morford  was  silent.  He  knew  that 
Peggy  was  not  thinking  of  him  at  all ;  the  emotion 
that  she  had  betrayed  at  seeing  him  again  was 
due  only  to  the  fact  of  his  connection  with  those 
first  strange  spiritual  experiences  of  hers. 

"You  can  not  possibly  be  one  till  you  have  been 
baptized  and  received,"  he  said  abruptly.  "And  if 
your  mother  is  opposed  to  your  becoming  one, 
that  puts  it  out  of  the  question  for  the  present. 
Why,  you  look  hardly  more  than  a  child!" 

"I  am  twenty,"  said  Peggy  simply. 


114  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Twenty?  She  looked  scarcely  more  than 
seventeen  with  her  slim,  straight,  childish  figure, 
her  clear,  childlike  gaze. 

"You  would  have  to  wait  in  any  case  a  year," 
he  told  her. 

"Oh,"  she  said  impulsively,  "can't  you  under- 
stand how  difficult — how  impossible  it  seems  to 
me  to  wait  even  a  day  longer?" 

Morford  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  looked 
at  her  as  if  measuring  her  strength,  her  power 
of  endurance.  There  was  nothing  very  reassur- 
ing in  the  result  of  this  scrutiny.  He  said 
roughly : 

"Look  here.  Let  me  give  you  a  word  of  advice. 
You  can  do  nothing  until  you  have  consulted  a 
priest,  and  I  think  most  priests  would  advise  you 
to  wait  another  year.  Your  impressions  are  still 
very  fresh  and  vivid,  but  in  a  year  they  may  have 
worn  off  a  little — other  things  may  have  arisen  to 
claim  your  attention,  your  interest.  I  have 
known  converts  who've  had  to  suffer  frightfully 
for  their  Faith — people  who've  been  turned  out 
of  house  and  home  penniless,  and  left  to  starve. 
A  man  can  always  work  and  earn  his  bread  with 
his  two  hands,  but  you!"  Again  there  was  that 
old  glance  of  contempt  at  the  very  softness,  the 
luxury,  of  the  atmosphere  in  which  she  had  been 
born  and  bred,  unfitting  her  for  strenuous  effort 
or  great  privations,  yet  now  it  seemed  to  her  that 
the  look  he  gave  her  was  not  wholly  unmixed 
with  a  certain  pity.  "What  could  you  do,  Miss 
Metcalfe?  You  would  most  certainly  starve! 
I'm  not  saying,  of  course,  that  your  people  would 
go  to  that  extreme.  I  do  not  know  them,  so  I 


THE  REST  HOUSE  115 

can  not  possibly  say  what  they  would  do.  I  only 
tell  you  that  these  things  are  possible  even  to 
people  who  believe  themselves  to  be  good  and 
conscientious !  You  might  be  turned  out  without 
a  penny.  Of  course  there  are  people  who  are 
strong  enough  to  suffer — even  as  St.  Paul  suf- 
fered— every  imaginable  privation  for  their 
Faith.  But  you — you  must  forgive  me,  Miss 
Metcalfe,  if  I  do  most  seriously  doubt  your  ca- 
pability of  being  one  of  them!" 

He  spoke  with  rough  but  passionate  earnest- 
ness, and  as  he  uttered  the  last  sentence  he 
looked  straight  into  Peggy's  eyes.  Before  that 
glance,  which  was  a  strange  mixture  of  pity,  dis- 
dain, and  something  else  which  she  could  not  and 
dared  not  try  to  define,  Peggy  lowered  her  eyes 
to  the  ground.  What  if  it  all  happened  as  he 
said?  Could  any  starving  of  the  body — could 
any  cold  and  privation  suffered  by  the  body — 
fill  her  with  that  torture  of  privation  and  nos- 
talgia from  which  her  soul  was  suffering?  She 
saw  herself  again  in  those  desolate,  snow-wrapped 
surroundings,  only  this  time  Peter  was  not  with 
her;  she  was  wandering  astray  and  alone.  And 
suddenly  on  the  hill  there  was  a  beacon-light 
shining  with  vivid  radiance  to  summon  her  into 
the  very  presence  of  God.  Moved  by  something 
in  his  words  and  look  that  touched  her  to  the 
heart,  she  cried,  "But  I  am  starving  now!" 

There  was  a  long  silence,  in  which  Morford 
could  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  The  effort  to 
control  himself  was  so  great  that  it  made  his  very 
features  stern  and  grim.  To  a  man  severely 
trained  to  self-discipline,  as  all  Catholics  are  in 


116  THE  REST  HOUSE 

their  youth,  the  actual  effort  was  no  new  thing 
to  him,  but  it  had  never  before  been  put  to  this 
kind  of  proof.  The  very  youth  and  weakness  of 
Peggy,  the  immaturity  of  her,  were  things  that 
seemed  to  demand  his  help  and  sympathy.  Yet 
he  dared  not  offer  his  help.  In  her  blind  striving 
toward  the  goal  upon  which  her  whole  heart  and 
being  were  set  he  felt  that  she  would  not  even 
have  disdained  the  only  offer  of  practical  help  he 
could  make  to  her.  If  he  had  asked  her  then  and 
there  to  be  his  wife  he  believed,  with  no  touch  of 
self-complacency,  that  she  would  have  accepted 
him,  simply  as  a  means  to  an  end.  It  would  have 
been  a  cruel  taking  advantage  of  that  youth  and 
inexperience,  and  Morford  banished  the  thought 
from  his  mind  with  a  bitter  self -contempt  that  he 
had  even  admitted  it  to  temporary  harborage 
there.  Poor  and  obscure,  he  saw  in  her  the  sister 
of  Lady  Charsley,  whom  he  had  observed  to-night 
with  curious  attention  as  the  center  of  a  brilliant 
little  throng  of  worldly  people.  He  had  recog- 
nized this  with  something  that  approached  agony. 
Yet  this  girl  had  bared  her  heart  to  him;  she 
seemed  to  be  unconsciously  but  very  definitely 
appealing  to  him  for  a  help  and  assistance  he 
could  not  in  honor  give  her.  He  was  nothing 
to  her  personally;  he  was  only  the  instrument 
flung  fortuitously  across  her  path. 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  risk  the  very  certain  things 
you  do  possess  for  what  may  prove  only  a  whim !" 
he  said  with  a  roughness  that  was  intended  to 
hide  from  her  his  own  emotion. 

"And  you  think  it  is  only  a  whim  after  all  I 
have  told  you?"  said  Peggy,  hurt  beyond  words 


THE  REST  HOUSE  117 

at  this  recrudescence  of  his  old  unkind  and  scorn- 
ful tone,  that  wounded  her  very  heart. 

"How  can  I  tell?  I  know  you  so  little.  You 
and  your  world  are  strangers  to  me!  I  know 
nothing  of  your  ideals  and  standards.  But  I  can 
see  at  least  that  you  are  emotional — easily  swayed 
and  impressed.  And  then  you  are  so  pitiably 
young — almost  a  child!  Even  if  you  risked 
nothing  by  becoming  a  Catholic,  I  think  almost 
any  priest  would  insist  upon  your  waiting  until 
you  were  more  sure  of  your  own  heart.  Let  me 
tell  you  it  isn't  easy,  this  Catholic  life.  Some- 
times it  is  very  difficult,  indeed.  It  demands  hard 
things  of  us — perpetual  self-denial,  perpetual 
submission  of  our  own  will.  Sometimes  we  who 
are  born  to  its  discipline  have  been  known  to 
rebel.  Its  laws  are  harsher  than  the  laws  men 
make  for  themselves.  Oh,  I  am  not  denying  that 
it  can  give  a  great  deal,  but  we  are  taught  every 
moment  the  price  we  have  to  pay  if  we  submit  to 
its  means  for  securing  the  ultimate  salvation  of 
our  souls." 

There  was  a  pause.  In  the  distance  the  strains 
of  a  fashionable,  rather  sentimental  waltz  could 
be  faintly  heard.  The  music  seemed  to  Peggy 
to  strike  a  false  note ;  the  very  pathos  of  it  was 
false.  She  threw  back  her  head  and  looked  stead- 
ily at  Morford. 

"Oh,  I  am  not  afraid,"  she  said  proudly.  "I 
believe  that  I  am  prepared  to  sacrifice  everything 
for  the  possession  of  those  things  I  learned  at 
the  Rest  House.  I  am  ready  to  pay,  although 
you  think  I  am  so  small  and  weak!"  Although 
she  looked  at  him,  Frederick  felt  that  she  was 


118  THE  REST  HOUSE 

not  now  thinking  of  him  at  all;  his  very  words 
were  hindering  rather  than  encouraging;  his 
doubts  of  her  powers  of  endurance  hurt  her  pride, 
but  could  not  diminish  her  ardent  resolve. 

"I  think  we  have  been  talking  long  enough," 
he  said;  "we  ought  to  go  back  to  the  ball-room. 
You  must  have  people  waiting  for  you  and  I  am 
sure  that  I  ought  to  be  dancing  with  Miss 
Dalton." 

But  Peggy  seemed  disinclined  to  move. 

"Oh,  do  not  let  us  go  back  yet,"  she  said  almost 
with  entreaty.  "I  have  so  much  to  say — so  many 
things  to  ask  you.  Please — please  do  not  go 
away  yet." 

The  vainest  of  men  could  not  have  read  any 
personal  preference  for  himself  into  this  im- 
pulsive speech.  It  forced  a  smile  from  Morford 
—a  little  grim  smile. 

"I  imagined  you  must  be  wishing  to  go  back 
and  dance,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  dance  at  all.  I  would 
far,  far  rather  remain  here  with  you — and  talk!" 
protested  Peggy  very  earnestly.  "Although 
some  of  the  things  you  say  hurt  me,  it  is  only 
because  I  am  so — so  foolish.  But  you  must  not 
think,  please,  that  I  am  not  ready  to  pay — to 
pay  even  more  than  you  have  said — to  possess— 
what  you  possess."  Her  voice  was  low  and 
troubled;  all  the  pride  it  had  betrayed  just  now 
had  gone  from  it;  she  was  trembling  as  if  with 
some  unconquerable  emotion. 

Ah,  if  he  could  only  have  given  it  to  her!  If 
he  could  only  dare  tell  her  all  that  there  was  in 
his  heart  of  love  and  pity  for  her!  But  he  dared 


THE  REST  HOUSE  119 

not.  She  was  the  child  of  rich  parents,  and  he 
knew  that  he  could  never  dare  approach  her  thus 
and  ask  her  to  be  his  wife.  He  would  be  dubbed 
self-seeking  by  all  the  world;  would  inevitably 
be  condemned  as  a  fortune-hunter  who  had  taken 
advantage  of  her  youth  and  inexperience  to  win 
her. 

How  could  he  answer  her?  The  very  sim- 
plicity of  her  speech  gave  it  a  meaning  that  was 
absolutely  true  and  genuine.  Words  came  back 
to  him  then:  "For  I  will  show  him  how  great 
things  he  must  suffer  for  My  Name's  sake." 
Very  few  converts  escape  altogether  that  divinely 
imposed  suffering ;  in  his  own  experience  all  were 
called  upon  in  a  greater  or  lesser  degree  to  pay 
that  grim  price  for  the  gift  of  their  spiritual 
gain.  And  in  most  cases  it  was  gladly  and  gen- 
erously paid.  He  remembered  the  case  of  a 
foreign  infidel  who  soon  after  his  conversion  was 
attacked  by  a  painful  and  fatal  malady,  and  ac- 
cepted it  as  a  just  punishment  for  the  sins  of  his 
past  life,  refusing  to  pray  for  his  own  recovery 
or  even  for  a  diminution  of  the  agony  it  entailed. 
But  there  were  also  weaker  souls  who,  when  the 
time  of  trial  came,  could  not  face  the  temporary 
loss,  the  poverty,  the  exile,  the  ostracism  from 
the  old,  beloved  milieu,  the  sacrifice  of  friends  and 
fortune.  And  it  was  the  fear  that  Peggy  might 
not  have  the  strength  to  persevere  in  the  face 
of  perhaps  cruel  opposition  that  made  him  now 
stern  in  his  very  discouragement. 

"You  think  that  now,"  he  said,  "but  I  do  not 
suppose  you  have  ever  had  to  do  without  a  single 
thing  you  wanted  during  the  whole  course  of 


120  THE  REST  HOUSE 

your  life.  We  could  not  help  seeing  when  you 
were  with  us  how  utterly  different  your  circum- 
stances were  from  ours.  But  if  you  are  really  in 
earnest,"  he  continued,  and  the  old  harshness  in- 
formed his  voice  as  he  spoke,  "you  can  begin  your 
preparation  now  in  your  daily  life.  I  am  not  a 
priest  and  I  don't  profess  to  be  devout  and  I 
hardly  know  how  to  explain  what  I  mean — in- 
deed, it  isn't  my  place  to  say  these  things  to  you 
at  all.  But  as  you  have  asked  my  advice  and 
because  you  seem  to  wish  me  to  speak  to  you  on 
this  subject,  I  can  at  least  say  this  much.  Begin 
now  to  cultivate  that  interior  submission  to  the 
Divine  Will  which  is  the  very  heart  and  root  of 
Catholic  life.  Practise  it  in  your  daily  life.  We 
are  taught  from  childhood  to  offer  the  actions, 
small  and  great,  of  each  day  to  God  in  a  spirit 
of  humble  submission.  And  not  only  our  actions 
but  our  thoughts,  our  prayers,  and  our  suffer- 
ings— our  liberty,  our  memory,  our  understand- 
ing, and  our  will — all  that  we  may  have  and  pos- 
sess! You  can  do  that  much  at  any  rate.  It  is 
within  the  power  of  all  of  us  at  least  to  make  the 
attempt.  You  can  make  yourself  fit  to  become  a 
Catholic  and  you  can  pray  to  receive  the  Faith 
and  to  become  a  member  of  His  Church.  You 
must  forgive  me  if  I  have  said  too  much — per- 
haps these  things  mean  nothing  to  you." 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  she  said  gravely;  "they 
mean  a  great  deal.  I  will  try  to  do  as  you  say. 
I  will  try  to  remember." 

There  was  a  long  silence  during  which  both 
figures  remained  curiously  motionless.  Frederick 
made  no  second  attempt  to  take  her  back  to  the 


THE  REST  HOUSE  121 

ball-room.  He  imagined  that  whatever  her  en- 
gagements might  be,  she  must  feel  little  in  the 
mood  for  dancing.  As  for  himself,  he  could 
easily  make  his  excuses  to  Bridget  Dalton,  with 
whom  he  was  on  friendly,  almost  brotherly,  terms. 
It  seemed  impossible  to  urge  Peggy  to  go  back 
and  join  the  rest  of  her  party;  she  looked  so  spent 
and  exhausted.  They  were  interrupted  at  last  by 
Hugh  Quentin,  who  came  hurrying  toward  them. 

"Miss  Metcalfe,"  he  said  in  a  cold  voice,  "Lady 
Charsley  has  sent  me  to  look  for  you.  She  is 
ready  to  go,  and  is  waiting  for  you." 

The  glance  he  bestowed  upon  Morford  was 
the  reverse  of  friendly ;  indeed,  it  was  as  insolent 
as  he  dared  to  make  it. 

Frederick  and  Peggy  rose  simultaneously. 
They  shook  hands  and  said  good-by  to  each 
other.  And  as  she  walked  away,  a  slight,  almost 
drooping  little  figure  by  Hugh's  side,  Morford 
folded  his  arms  and  watched  them  as  if  he  were 
making  an  effort  to  engrave  this  last  memory  of 
her  forever  upon  his  mind.  He  was  aware  that 
there  had  been  something  almost  openly  hostile 
in  Hugh's  manner  as  he  bowed  stiffly  to  him  in 
farewell.  It  seemed  to  him  an  expression  that 
might  be  symbolic  of  all  Peggy's  world  toward 
himself  and  all  that  he  stood  for.  He  felt  in  that 
moment  as  if  he  were  parting  from  her  for  ever, 
and  the  thought  held  for  him  all  the  anguish  of 
sharp  physical  suffering. 

"My  dear  Peggy!  Where  on  earth  have  you 
been  ?"  Beatrice's  manner  was  irritable  from  sheer 
anxiety;  she  did  not  even  try  to  control  it, 


122  THE  REST  HOUSE 

although  Lady  Philippa  was  standing  there  and 
could  hear  every  word  she  said.  Lady  Trow- 
haven  and  her  daughter  were  also  present,  but 
they  were  so  busy  putting  on  their  cloaks  that 
they  seemed  to  have  no  attention  for  anything 
else. 

"Did  you  have  any  supper?"  inquired  Beatrice, 
as  her  sister  did  not  speak,  but  stood  looking  at 
her  in  a  confused  and  bewildered  way. 

Peggy  had  not  given  a  thought  to  supper.  She 
had  not  been  aware  that  her  sister  never  stayed 
late  at  a  dance.  Beatrice  considered  three  hours 
quite  sufficient  for  any  one,  and  if  the  men  of 
the  party  wished  to  remain  longer,  they  could 
always  do  so  and  a  motor  was  left  at  their  dis- 
posal. 

"No — but  I  didn't  want  any,"  said  Peggy, 
looking  at  her  sister  with  strangely  shining  eyes. 
She  took  her  white  fur  coat  from  the  hands  of 
the  attendant.  "I  am  tired,  Beatrice.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  go." 

"I  only  saw  you  dancing,  twice — quite  early  in 
the  evening.  But  it  can  not  be  true — what  Hugh 
suggested  to  me — that  you  were  still  with  this 
Mr.  Morford  when  he  went  to  look  for  you?"  said 
Beatrice  in  an  undertone  that  held  no  little 
anger. 

Peggy  had  eluded  her  vigilance;  she  had 
slipped  away  without  a  word,  accomplishing  ex- 
actly all  that  they  had  intended  to  avoid  for 
her.  Beatrice  was  perfectly  aware  that  Mr.  Mor- 
ford was  the  hero  of  that  Somersetshire  escapade. 
She  dreaded  his  influence  upon  Peggy. 

"Yes;  I  was  with  him.    I  am  sorry,  Beatrice. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  123 

I  did  not  know  how  late  it  was  or  that  we  had 
been  sitting  there  such  a  long  time." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  only  spent  a  few 
minutes  in  the  company  of  Frederick  Morford; 
she  had  not  asked  him  one-tenth  of  the  things  she 
had  wished  to. 

"It  is  very  bad  form  to  sit  out  the  whole  even- 
ing like  that.  You  ought  to  have  known  better, 
Peggy.  Of  course,  one  can  not  expect  any  deli- 
cacy of  understanding  from  such  men  as  that; 
but  he  should  have  known  better  than  to  make 
you  so  conspicuous!" 

The  implied  insult  in  her  speech  made  Peggy 
flush  with  a  momentary  sensation  of  anger.  But 
it  passed  and  she  said  very  quietly:  "He  did  wish 
to  take  me  back  to  the  ball-room,  but  I  begged 
him  to  remain." 

"You  begged  him  to  remain?"  cried  Beatrice. 
Her  other  guests  had  gone  into  the  entrance-hall 
and  were  waiting  for  her  there,  thinking  she  had 
something  of  importance  to  say  to  Peggy.  "It 
is  not  possible,  Peggy,  that  you  could  have  flung 
yourself  at  his  head  like  that!" 

Peggy  colored  all  over  her  face  and  neck. 
Beatrice's  words  were  dreadful,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  almost  as  if  the  touch  of  a  soiling  hand  had 
actually  smirched  her. 

"Oh,  Beatrice!"  she  said.  "Mr.  Morford 
would  never  think  a  thing  like  that  of  me.  He 
knows  so  well  why  I  wanted  to  speak  to  him — 
why  I  wanted  to  remain  there  instead  of 
dancing!" 

Beatrice's  hard  words  had  wrung  this  timid 
confession  from  her.  Peggy  felt  she  would  rather 


124  THE  REST  HOUSE 

that  her  sister  should  know  the  real  truth  than 
that  she  should  put  such  a  false  interpretation 
upon  her  action. 

Beatrice  bestowed  upon  her  a  searching  glance. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  Peggy  was  changed  this 
evening;  she  looked  so  vivid  and  alive — she  who 
was  generally  so  quiet  and  colorless.  And  she 
was  almost  beautiful  with  that  delicate  flush  still 
lingering  in  her  face  and  her  eyes  as  bright  as 
lamps.  She  showed  traces  of  excitement  and  of 
emotion.  Was  she — could  she  be — in  love  with 
this  man?  Were  her  leanings  toward  Catholi- 
cism inspired  by  an  incipient  and  utterly  unde- 
sirable love-affair?  If  so,  the  sooner  her  engage- 
ment to  Hugh  Quentin  was  announced  the  better ! 
Beatrice  moved  toward  the  door. 

When  they  were  all  in  the  motor,  traveling 
home  at  top  speed,  Beatrice  said  in  a  disapprov- 
ing voice: 

"I  couldn't  persuade  Violet  Hawthorn-  to 
come !" 

"Oh,  Rollo'll  look  after  her,"  said  Hugh,  who 
had  sulkily  announced  his  intention  of  accom- 
panying them  home.  His  evening  had  been  thor- 
oughly spoiled  and  he  was  quite  out  of  temper. 

"It  is  a  great  pity  that  she  mil  get  herself 
talked  about,"  said  Lady  Trowhaven,  censo- 
riously, glancing  at  her  daughter  to  see  if  the 
censure  had  penetrated  to  that  meek  blonde  head. 

"People  will  only  think  they're  really  engaged 
at  last,"  said  Hugh. 

Peggy  sat  silently  on  a  small  seat  beside  him. 
All  through  the  drive  home  she  did  not  once 
speak.  Beatrice's  words  had  aroused  within  her 


THE  REST  HOUSE  125 

a  strange  excitement  that  expressed  itself  in  the 
hard  beating  of  her  heart,  the  trembling  of  her 
limbs.  Only  she  was  not  thinking  now  of  Bea- 
trice nor  of  her  displeasure;  her  thoughts  were 
entirely  concentrated  upon  that  conversation  with 
Frederick  Morford.  It  had  been,  as  she  knew, 
hardly  purchased.  Beatrice's  suspicions  were 
aroused  and  she  would  certainly  relate  the  episode 
to  Lady  Metcalfe. 


CHAPTER  IX 

PEGGY  passed  a  restless  and  almost  sleepless 
night,  and  she  did  not  know  whether  she  felt 
happy  or  the  reverse  in  those  hours  she  spent 
lying  awake.  Her  brain  was  so  active  that  she 
almost  felt  as  if  something  were  moving  about  in- 
side her  head,  confusing  her  thoughts.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  to  analyze  her  own  feeling  for 
Morford  nor  to  ask  herself  why  this  sudden  ap- 
pearance had  evoked  within  her  a  feeling  of  fear 
as  well  as  of  joy.  Apart  from  his  Faith — and 
indeed  apart  from  that  he  hardly  mattered  to 
her  at  all — she  was  not  even  sure  that  she  liked 
him.  He  was  not  gentle  and  agreeable  and  suave 
of  speech  like  Hugh  Quentin.  There  was  some- 
thing harsh  and  dominating  about  him,  some- 
thing fiercely  scornful.  Always  he  suggested 
that  disdainful  contempt  of  weakness.  If  Peggy 
had  examined  her  own  heart,  as  an  older  woman 
would  probably  have  done,  she  would  perhaps 
have  discovered  something  of  the  truth.  The 
man  was  dangerously  fascinating  because  he 
could  attract  even  when  he  most  repelled.  Peggy, 
looking  upon  him  only  in  his  capacity  as  a 
teacher,  was  conscious  of  that  rough  mastery  that 
held  her  like  a  vise,  and  made  her  obedient,  timid, 
and  submissive  to  a  point  that  astonished  her- 
self. But  with  it  all  there  had  been  something 
in  his  manner  to-night  that  repudiated  all  per- 
sonal responsibility  in  the  affairs  of  her  soul,  a 
rejection  of  any  participation  in  it  that  was  tan- 
tamount to  a  refusal  to  be  mixed  up  in  the  matter 

126 


THE  REST  HOUSE  127 

of  her  possible  conversion.  It  was  this  attitude 
that  had  wounded  Peggy.  He  had  spoken  to  her 
as  if  he  were  doing  so  only  at  her  request  but 
against  his  own  will  and  against  his  better  judg- 
ment. And  she — she  felt  that  he  had  in  some 
sense  been  sent  to  help  her,  and  it  wounded  her 
to  feel  that  he  rejected  any  responsibility  in  the 
matter.  And  he  had  shown  so  plainly  through  all 
his  speech  that  he  did  not  believe  her  capable 
of  any  sacrifice,  of  any  forfeiting  of  the  purple 
and  fine  linen  of  her  present  soft  life.  She  was 
made  in  his  eyes  for  ease  and  calm,  not  for  strife 
and  storms. 

Peggy,  as  she  lay  in  bed,  feeling  little  inclined 
for  the  toast,  butter  and  marmalade  and  steaming 
hot  coffee  that  had  been  brought  up  to  her  on  a 
tray,  could  not  help  feeling  that  she  was  in  dis- 
grace with  Beatrice.  Those  few  words  that  had 
passed  between  them  last  night  had  shown  her 
that  Beatrice  had  felt  ashamed  at  her  conduct. 
And  Hugh  was  angry  and  perhaps  a  little  jealous 
that  she  had  not  danced  with  him  again,  although 
she  had  promised  to  do  so. 

Perhaps  Beatrice  would  send  her  home  in  dis- 
grace. While  she  remained  at  Lavender  there 
was  always  a  chance  that  she  might  see  Morford 
again.  The  future  looked  very  dark.  Peggy 
felt  that  it  would  be  less  of  a  trial  to  be  a  martyr 
than  to  be  treated  as  a  naughty,  rebellious  child ; 
and  it  was  in  the  latter  guise  she  would  certainly 
have  to  appear  before  the  ultimate  domestic 
tribunal  at  Mildon  if  Beatrice  sent  her  home. 
Then  there  would  perhaps  be  that  threatened  in- 
terview with  her  father — a  course  that  had  all 


128  THE  REST  HOUSE 

her  life  been  adopted  when  it  was  found  neces- 
sary to  bring  Peggy  to  reason.  Sir  John  had 
always  left  the  management  of  his  daughters  to 
his  wife  unless  she  called  upon  him  for  assist- 
ance, and  except  in  Peggy's  case  she  had  never 
done  this.  His  measures,  if  drastic,  had  been  suc- 
cessful and  had  contributed  sensibly  to  the  sub- 
dual of  Peggy  when  she  was  a  little  child,  and 
the  fear  of  him,  inherited  from  those  days,  had 
never  left  her. 

Peggy  drank  some  coffee;  she  hoped  that  it 
would  steady  her  nerves.  She  was  certainly  over- 
tired as  a  result  of  last  night's  dissipation,  and 
consequently  she  was  unnerved  and  inclined  to 
look  upon  the  dark  side  of  things.  Suddenly  a 
knock  at  the  door  caused  her  to  set  down  her 
cup  with  a  startled,  guilty  air;  she  said,  "Come 
in,"  and  the  door  opened  to  admit  Lady  Philippa. 

Lady  Philippa  had  rooms  not  far  from  Peggy's 
own  and  she  had  come  to  her  as  yet  not  fully 
dressed,  for  she  wore  a  dainty  wrapper  of  pale 
pink  silk  and  her  hair  was  carelessly  arranged 
under  a  little  cap  of  pink  silk  and  lace  with  a 
diminutive  wreath  of  roses.  She  looked  amaz- 
ingly pretty,  and  as  fresh  and  rosy  as  a  baby 
newly  emerged  from  slumber. 

"My  dear  child,"  she  said  as  she  came  across 
the  room  to  Peggy's  bedside,  "you  quite  alarmed 
me  last  night." 

"Did  I?"  said  Peggy.  She  did  not  feel  in- 
clined to  discuss  last  night's  happenings  in  an 
intimate  way  with  Lady  Philippa;  she  was  not 
sure  how  far  she  could  trust  her  not  to  tell  Bea- 
trice. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  129 

"Beatrice  was  awfully  put  out.  You  weren't 
very  discreet,  you  know.  I  hope  there's  no  secret 
understanding  between  you  and  Frederick  Mor- 
ford?" 

"Oh,  Lady  Philippa;  what  do  you  mean?  Of 
course  there  isn't!  Why,  I  hardly  know  him — 
we  are  almost  strangers."  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tears  at  this  fresh  evidence  of  misinterpretation 
and  misunderstanding  of  her  interview  with  Mor- 
ford. 

But  her  scarlet,  confused  face  only  aroused 
Lady  Philippa's  suspicions  anew. 

"Is  he  trying  to  persuade  you  to  become  a 
Catholic?  But  I'm  sure  I  needn't  ask  you  that. 
Frederick  is  very  prudent  and  you  are  so  young. 
He  is  quite  well  aware  what  people  would  say  if 
he  attempted  to  do  such  a  thing!" 

"I  was  asking  him  about  it,"  said  Peggy  in  a 
low  voice.  "You  see,  he  knows  everything — 
everything.  He  has  been  a  Catholic  all  his  life. 
I  was  only  making  the  most  of  my  opportunity 
of  talking  to  him — perhaps  I  shall  never  have 
another!  I  am  sure  that  he  does  not  want  me  to 
be  a  Catholic — he  thinks  I  am  not  strong  enough 
to  persevere." 

"He  can  not  have  fallen  in  love  with  you?"  said 
Philippa,  looking  so  hard  at  the  lovely,  childish 
little  face  with  its  dark  framing  hair  that  it 
brought  a  fresh  crop  of  blushes  to  the  pale  cheeks. 
"He  could  not  be  such  a  fool  as  that  when  he  has 
not  got  a  penny  piece!  They  are  most  awfully 
hard  up — Ally  Dalton  says  they  really  have  not 
always  enough  to  eat,  and  his  sister  works  harder 
than  a  servant.  Your  father  would  never  allow 


130  THE  REST  HOUSE 

it  apart  from  the  religious  difficulty.  You  must 
not  let  yourself  think  about  Frederick!" 

"I  am  not  thinking  of  him  like  that,"  said 
Peggy  miserably ;  "I  know  how  poor  they  are  and 
that  he  had  to  leave  the  army,  and  perhaps  that 
has  made  him  harsh  and  embittered.  And  of 
course  he  is  not  in  love  with  me.  I  do  not  think 
he  likes  me  at  all.  He  has  only  seen  me  twice  and 
he  speaks  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  child.  Not  even 
kindly,  but  harshly  and  roughly!  He  is  not  at 
all  kind  and  agreeable  as  Peter's  friends  gen- 
erally are.  but  he  knows — he  can  teach  me.  And 
I  want  to  learn." 

She  sat  up  in  bed,  clasping  her  hands  to- 
gether. In  the  thin,  cobwebby  nightdress  cut  low 
at  the  throat  and  short-sleeved  she  looked  more 
than  ever  like  a  child. 

"And  so  he  is  against  your  becoming  a  Cath- 
olic?" said  Lady  Philippa. 

"Yes,  as  far  as  I  can  tell.  He  says  almost  any 
priest  would  make  me  wait,  and  that  it  is  hard 
and  difficult  and  that  the  convert  always  has  to 
pay.  He  thinks  I  am  too  weak — that  I  should 
not  persevere." 

Although  she  was  a  devout  Catholic,  Lady 
Philippa  was  a  thorough  woman  of  the  world, 
and  she  wondered  a  little  how  Peggy  Metcalfe 
had  managed  to  arrive  at  the  age  of  twenty  and 
possess  so  little  experience  of  the  world  and  of 
men.  She  seemed  unaware  that  it  could  be  pos- 
sible for  any  other  interpretation  to  be  placed 
upon  her  very  prolonged  interview  with  Fred- 
erick Morford  last  night.  They  had  disappeared 
from  the  ball-room  for  a  couple  of  hours,  a  thing 


THE  REST  HOUSE  131 

which  people  do  not  generally  do  unless  they 
are  at  any  rate  deeply  interested  in  each  other. 
Peggy  must  have  known  that  her  other  partners 
were  waiting  for  her  and  perhaps  wondering 
where  she  was,  but  it  had  not  even  occurred  to 
her  that  she  was  exciting  remark  or  stimulating 
criticism. 

"I  think,  my  dear,"  Philippa  said  lightly,  "that 
it  would  perhaps  be  more  discreet  if  you  were  to 
sit  at  the  feet  of  a  female  Gamaliel  in  the  future. 
A  woman  will  be  able  to  teach  you  all  you  wish 
to  know  on  the  subject  of  religion  quite  as  well 
as  Frederick  Morford.  I  have  never  heard  that 
he  was  an  exceptionally  devout  man,  and  you 
must  forgive  me  if  I  think  you  have  at  least  mis- 
interpreted his  view  of  the  situation !" 

Beatrice  had  spoken  rather  openly  to  Philippa 
about  Peggy  last  night  and  had  set  her  on  her 
guard.  Peggy,  she  averred,  was  full  of  whims 
and  fancies,  was  inclined  to  be  nervous  and  hys- 
terical, and  had  always  been  rebellious  against 
authority.  Peggy's  bad  "nursery -character"  had 
stuck  to  her  like  a  gigantic  burr. 

"You  are  very  young,  you  know,"  continued 
Philippa  Sacheverell,  "and,  although  you  may 
not  be  aware  of  it,  you  are  letting  this  man  in- 
fluence you.  He  has  a  powerful  personality,  and 
of  course  you  are  a  baby  in  his  hands.  I  advise 
you  to  be  more  careful  in  the  future.  You  can 
not  play  with  a  man  like  Frederick  Morford — 
you  will  only  burn  your  own  fingers  and  wake 
up  one  day  to  find  that  you  are  hopelessly  in 
love  with  him!" 

Peggy  was  just  about  to  make  an  indignant 


132  THE  REST  HOUSE 

rejoinder  when  the  door  opened  and  Beatrice 
came  into  the  room  accompanied  by  her  two  elder 
children.  She  held  one  by  each  hand  and  ad- 
vanced toward  the  bed  smiling1  and  looking  very 
happy  and  contented.  Beatrice  was  always  seen 
at  her  best  with  her  children;  she  was  passion- 
ately attached  to  them  and  was  never  so  happy 
as  when  there  was  a  new  baby  to  demand  her 
care.  It  was  undoubtedly  this  maternal  quality 
which  had  made  her  marriage  such  a  success. 
Her  pride  in  her  children  was  almost  arrogant. 

She  stooped  down  and  kissed  Peggy  and  then 
Ethne  and  Jack  followed  their  mother's  example. 

"Dood  morning,  Auntie  Peggy,"  they  both 
said  in  chorus. 

"Peggy,  I'm  going  to  be  a  hard-hearted  sister 
and  send  you  home  to-day.  Diana's  coming  and 
I  want  her  to  have  these  rooms,"  said  Lady 
Charsley. 

She  had  had  a  long  talk  with  her  husband  and 
he  had  agreed  with  her  that  if  there  was  to  be  any 
trouble  about  Peggy  and  the  violent  fancy  she 
had  taken  for  that  queer-looking  man,  it  was 
better  that  the  venue  of  it  should  be  else- 
where than  at  Lavender.  He  at  least  did  not 
wish  to  incur  any  blame  from  Sir  John,  whose 
behavior  as  a  father-in-law  was  all  that  the  most 
extravagant  and  impecunious  son-in-law  could 
desire ! 

"Very  well,  Beatrice,"  said  Peggy. 

Lady  Philippa,  thinking  the  sisters  had  some- 
thing more  to  say  to  each  other,  discreetly  left  the 
room,  bestowing  a  parting  nod  and  smile  upon 
poor  Peggy. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  133 

"What  time  do  you  want  me  to  go?"  asked 
Peggy  with  a  lump  in  her  throat. 

"Directly  after  luncheon.  Hugh's  going  then 
and  you  can  travel  by  the  same  train.  It'll  be 
more  convenient,  as  the  car  can  wait  at  the  station 
for  Diana." 

Beatrice  spoke  in  a  tone  of  authority  and  de- 
cision; she  looked  this  morning  a  thoroughly 
capable  and  competent  young  matron. 

"Why  is  Auntie  Peggy  going  away?"  inquired 
Ethne.  "Has  she  been  naughty?"  She  detected 
with  the  unerring  instinct  of  childhood  that  there 
was  displeasure  in  her  mother's  tone  and  that 
for  some  mysterious  reason  she  was  "cross  with 
Auntie  Peggy."  And  in  Ethne's  limited  experi- 
ence people  were  only  cross  with  you  when  you 
had  been  naughty.  "What's  oo  done,  Auntie 
Peggy?"  she  further  inquired,  as  no  answer 
seemed  to  be  immediately  forthcoming. 

"I  am  sorry  I  can't  undertake  the  responsi- 
bility of  you  any  more,"  said  Beatrice,  in  a  light, 
cutting  tone;  "you  know  there  are  two  or  three 
dances  still  to  come  and  I  had  meant  to  take  you 
to  them  all.  But  I  see  it  would  never  do.  It 
is  not  my  place  to  say  anything  to  you  about 
last  night;  but  I'm  older  than  you,  Peggy,  and 
I'm  married  and  have  had  more  experience.  You 
did  behave  outrageously  last  night.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  this  Morford  man,  but  if  you 
fall  into  the  clutches  of  any  fortune-hunter  while 
you  are  under  my  care,  mother  will  never  forgive 
me.  She  gave  me  such  strict  injunctions  about 
you  and  I  have  the  feeling  that  you  have  delib- 
erately defied  me.  I'm  quite  sure  religion  hasn't 


134  THE  REST  HOUSE 

anything  to  do  with  it.  Religion  says  we  are  to 
honor  and  obey  our  parents.  If  you  say  you 
want  to  be  a  Roman  Catholic  we  shall  all  know 
it's  because  you  want  to  show  us  how  rebellious 
and  undutiful  you  can  be!" 

"Mummy,  why's  oo  scolding  Auntie  Peggy?" 
inquired  Ethne  with  shrill  persistence.  Little 
Jack,  however,  hung  his  head  and  looked  as  if  he 
were  about  to  cry.  He  always  cried  if  Ethne 
wer6  scolded ;  he  was  so  sorry  for  her. 

"Is  oo  going  to  whip  Auntie  Peggy?"  asked 
Ethne,  who  had  been  occasionally  informed  as  a 
deterrent  that  very  naughty  and  disobedient  girls 
were  sometimes  called  upon  to  endure  this  pain- 
ful punishment. 

"Run  away  to  nurse,  darling,  and  take  Jack 
with  you,"  said  Beatrice. 

When  the  children  had  gone  Peggy  lost  con- 
trol of  herself  and  began  to  cry.  She  felt  tired 
and  miserable  and  she  dreaded  the  thought  of 
returning  home.  She  would  be  in  dire  disgrace 
when  Lady  Metcalfe  learned  the  reason  of  her 
premature  departure  from  Lavender.  There 
would  be  a  scene,  and  Peggy  hated  and  feared 
scenes. 

"I  have  wired  to  mother  that  you  are  coming 
and  I  have  written  a  long  letter  besides,"  said 
Beatrice. 

"How  cruel  you  are,  Beatrice!"  sobbed  Peggy. 

"I  am  acting  only  for  your  good.  You  are 
very  young  and  very  foolish.  You  must  be  saved 
from  yourself.  Look  facts  in  the  face,  Peggy. 
You  would  never  be  allowed  to  marry  this  man, 
apart  from  the  fact  of  his  being  a  Roman  Cath- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  135 

olic,  which  is  like  a  red  rag  to  a  bull  to  father. 
The  sooner  you  give  up  thinking  of  him  the 
better.  In  any  case  I  do  not  mean  to  run  any 
risks — you  shall  not  have  the  chance  of  meeting 
him  again  while  you  are  under  my  roof." 

When  Beatrice  had  left  her  alone  Peggy  lay 
back  on  the  pillow  and  her  tears  flowed  unre- 
strained. She  was  too  tired  and  too  wretched  to 
attempt  to  control  them  and  her  sobs  became 
every  moment  louder  and  more  violent.  At  last, 
realizing  that  her  maid  would  soon  want  to  come 
and  pack,  she  rose  and  sponged  her  face  with  cold 
water  and  put  eau-de-cologne  on  her  swollen  eye- 
lids. It  made  them  smart  and  sting,  but  it  did  not 
improve  their  disfigured  appearance.  By  the 
time  Peggy  was  dressed  she  perceived  that  she 
was  still  quite  unpresentable  and  that  she  could 
not  possibly  appear  downstairs  at  luncheon.  This 
would  annoy  Beatrice,  who  probably  would 
not  wish  her  guests  to  know  that  there  was 
anything  sudden  or  unusual  about  Peggy's  de- 
parture. 

Peggy  had  her  luncheon  in  her  room,  and  when 
Beatrice  came  up  to  see  her  she  felt  a  little  sorry 
for  her  and  wished  that  she  had  kept  her  in  bed 
instead  of  sending  her  home.  It  was  a  long  jour- 
ney and  the  day  was  very  cold,  and  Peggy  looked 
unfit  to  bear  any  unusual  fatigue.  The  girl  really 
looked  quite  ill,  and  her  face,  though  now  calm, 
still  bore  the  traces  of  that  violent  weeping. 
However,  there  was  only  time  for  her  to  take  a 
very  hurried  farewell  of  her  fellow-guests  as  she 
passed  through  the  hall,  and  some  of  them  were 
not  even  there  to  witness  her  departure.  Only 


136  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Philippa  Sacheverell  came  up  and  kissed  her 
kindly  and  whispered,  "Cheer  up,  my  dear,  we've 
all  had  to  go  through  these  things !"  And  Henry 
Sacheverell  shook  her  hand  and  bade  her  adieu 
in  his  grave,  courtly  way. 

Hugh  sat  outside  with  the  chauffeur  and 
Peggy  sat  inside  the  car  with  her  maid.  It 
seemed  a  very  long  way  to  the  station,  yet  she  felt 
sorry  when  they  arrived,  and  positively  dreaded 
lest  Hugh  Quentin  should  insist  upon  traveling 
with  her.  She  so  wanted  to  be  alone  to  think  out 
things  a  little. 

She  was  standing  on  the  platform  when  Hugh 
came  up  to  her.  Her  maid  had  gone  to  see  after 
the  luggage  and  Peggy  was  alone.  But  he  only 
asked  her  if  she  wanted  anything  to  read,  and 
then  went  off  to  the  book-stall  to  buy  some  papers 
for  himself.  Peggy  felt  embarrassed  at  seeing 
him  thus  again.  She  had  been  so  crushed  by 
Beatrice,  who  had  somehow  made  her  feel 
that  she  had  behaved  in  an  outrageous  and 
unladylike  way  that  she  felt  she  could  hardly 
hold  up  her  head  and  meet  his  eyes.  She  was 
ashamed  because  her  own  action  had  been  so  mis- 
construed. Her  pleasure  in  seeing  Morford 
again  had  been  so  completely  misinterpreted  by 
Beatrice  and  Hugh  and  even  by  Lady  Philippa, 
who  ought  at  least  to  have  understood.  And 
even  Morford  had  not  been  very  kind.  He  had 
snubbed  her,  scorned  her,  tried  in  every  way  to 
discourage  her  and  dimmish  her  enthusiasm. 
There  had  been  no  comfort  anywhere,  and  she 
was  being  sent  home  in  disgrace,  just  like  an 
unmanageable  child.  The  worst  of  it  all  was  that 


THE  REST  HOUSE  137 

she  had  a  secret  dread  that  Morford  had  also 
misread  that  emotion  which  his  sudden  appear- 
ance had  evoked. 

As  the  train  came  in  Hugh  approached  her 
again  with  a  stern,  unsmiling  face.  He  opened 
the  door  of  a  first-class  carriage  and  helped 
Peggy  into  it.  Her  maid  followed  with  her  bag 
and  rug.  Silently  Hugh  helped  to  install  her, 
and  his  solicitude  for  her  comfort,  despite  his  evi- 
dent displeasure,  touched  her  a  little  and  made 
her  feel  grateful  to  him.  Then  he  raised  his  hat 
and  walked  away  down  the  corridor.  Obviously 
he  had  no  intention  of  traveling  with  her.  She 
saw  nothing  more  of  him  until  they  reached  Lon- 
don, when  in  the  same  speechless  way  he  saw  her 
into  a  taxi  and  waited  while  her  luggage  was 
being  brought. 

Then  he  said:  "Good-by,  Miss  Metcalfe.  Say 
all  sorts  of  things  to  Peter  for  me,  please,"  but 
he  did  not  smile  at  all  and  took  her  hand  for  a 
second,  only  to  drop  it  abruptly.  His  eyes 
softened  involuntarily,  however,  as  he  looked  at 
her.  What  had  happened  to  make  the  girl  look 
so  wan  and  white  to-day?  Last  night  she  had 
seemed  to  him  such  a  radiant,  vivid,  almost 
troubling  vision,  utterly  out  of  his  reach.  To- 
day she  resembled  a  sad  child  pleading  inarticu- 
lately to  be  comforted.  What  had  this  strange 
man  said  to  her?  Were  they  in  love  with  each 
other  with  that  swift,  sudden  love  which  some- 
times springs  up  between  two  people  of  widely 
different  upbringing  and  position,  as  if  to  verify 
the  old  belief  that  Love  is  a  god,  recking  nothing 
of  worldly  standards?  He  knew  enough  of  the 


138  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Metcalfes  to  know  they  would  never  for  a  mo- 
ment tolerate  such  a  match  as  that  for  one  of 
their  daughters. 

"Good-by,"  said  Peggy,  holding  out  a  little 
listless  hand.  Even  through  her  glove  the  touch 
of  it  chilled  him. 


CHAPTER  X 

LADY  METCALFE  was  not  without  the  wisdom 
which  the  placid  of  this  world  possess.  She 
always  avoided  anything  disagreeable  in  the 
shape  of  a  scene  if  she  could.  So,  although  she 
was  astonished  at  Beatrice's  telegram  announc- 
ing Peggy's  return  and  felt  sure  that  something 
really  grave  must  have  happened  to  necessitate 
such  sharp  and  swift  measures,  she  made  no  com- 
ment upon  it  whatever  when  she  saw  her  daugh- 
ter. But  she  took  away  the  letter  which  was 
presented  to  her  by  the  maid  and  proceeded  to 
her  own  room  to  read  it  in  private. 

Her  curiosity  was  thoroughly  stimulated,  and 
the  only  interpretation  she  had  been  able  to  place 
upon  the  untoward  incident  was  the  fear  that 
Hugh  might  have  been  a  little  premature  in  the 
disclosure  of  his  intentions,  and  had  already 
asked  Peggy  to  be  his  wife  and  that  she  had 
refused  him — which  was  unfortunately  only  too 
probable.  But  in  this  case  it  was  surely  Hugh 
who  should  have  left  Lavender,  not  Peggy. 

Beatrice's  letter,  however,  threw  a  very  abun- 
dant and  detailed  light  upon  the  situation.  It 
gave  a  singularly  full  and  exact  account  of  all 
that  had  happened  at  the  Hunt  Ball,  and  of  the 
unexpected  as  well  as  unfortunate  appearance  of 
Morford  among  Mrs.  Dalton's  guests.  "She 
always  has  Noah's  Ark  parties,"  wrote  Beatrice, 
"but  I  never  remember  to  have  seen  quite  such  a 
menagerie  before.  If  it  were  not  for  Ally,  who 

139 


140  THE  REST  HOUSE 

is  a  good  sort,  I  really  think  I  should  drop  the 
woman's  acquaintance."  Beatrice  went  on  to 
say  that  she  believed  Peggy  had  fallen  in  love 
with  Morford  during  her  visit  to  the  Rest  House. 
He  was  a  very  rough  diamond  indeed — suppos- 
ing that  he  were  a  diamond  at  all,  which  Beatrice 
plainly  doubted — a  boor  of  a  man,  slovenly  in 
appearance,  but  not  bad  looking  in  a  great,  dark 
way.  His  people  were  extremely  poor — Philly 
Sacheverell,  who  had  heard  a  good  deal  about 
them  from  the  Daltons,  said  they  sometimes 
even  hadn't  enough  to  eat.  He  and  Ally  Dalton 
were  said  to  be  intimate  friends,  and  Mrs.  Dal- 
ton had  told  Philly  that  she  liked  him  very  much ; 
he  had  borne  so  many  trials  with  such  perfect 
fortitude.  Beatrice  added  by  way  of  parenthe- 
sis, "I  have  often  observed  that  Roman  Catholics 
who  are  so  opposed  to  Socialism  are  often  far 
more  democratic  at  heart  than  we  are.  It  is 
often  enough  just  to  be  a  Catholic  to  obtain  ad- 
mittance to  their  most  exclusive  circles."  She 
went  on  to  describe  Peggy's  prolonged  disap- 
pearance in  the  company  of  Morford,  and 
Hugh's  ill-concealed  annoyance  and  jealousy. 
"Of  course  she  may  be  for  all  we  know  a  thor- 
ough-paced little  flirt,  and  have  done  it  only  to 
lead  Hugh  on  by  tormenting  him  and  arousing 
his  jealousy.  But  when  a  man  sees  a  girl  carry- 
ing on  with  a  nobody  it  is  much  more  likely  to 
disgust  and  drive  him  away  altogether.  Hugh 
spoke  to  me  very  plainly  about  Peggy  before 
the  ball  and  he  admitted  that  he  was  in  love  with 
her,  but  he  feared  that  she  was  too  much  of  a 
child  at  present  to  know  her  own  heart.  Now  I 


THE  REST  HOUSE  141 

am  afraid  that  she  has  deliberately  destroyed  that 
impression  (which  I  did  my  best  to  encourage) 
by  her  very  silly  behavior.  She  went  as  white  as 
a  sheet  when  Morford  came  up  to  her.  She 
looked  positively  agitated!  It  is  a  thousand 
pities  that  such  a  silly,  impressionable  girl  as 
Peggy  should  have  been  snowed  up  in  that  mis- 
erable farm-house." 

Yes,  it  was  a  thousand  pities,  but  it  was  too 
late  to  undo  it  now.  The  question  was  how  to 
remove,  efface,  obliterate  the  unfortunate  im- 
pressions there  engraved  upon  Peggy's  plastic 
mind.  To  be  severe  with  obstinate  persons  often 
had  the  undesired  effect  of  making  them  cling 
with  even  greater  determination  to  the  error  of 
their  ways.  After  an  hour's  reflection  Lady 
Metcalfe  resolved  to  be  tactful  and  silent,  and 
conceal  her  displeasure  from  Peggy.  She  was 
even  inclined  to  think  that  Beatrice  had  behaved 
in  rather  a  high-handed  way  by  sending  Peggy 
home,  and  washing  her  hands — so  to  speak — of 
her.  But  she  felt  that  it  was  not  at  all  the  mo- 
ment to  scold  Peggy.  It  might  even  do  more 
harm  than  good.  Girls  were  so  apt  to  consider 
themselves  ill-used  when  their  wise  elders  stepped 
in  to  nip  an  incipient  love  affair  in  the  bud.  Be- 
sides, it  was  almost  a  relief  to  her  to  know  that 
Beatrice's  view  held  the  consoling  belief  that 
Peggy  was  much  less  attracted  to  the  religion 
itself  than  to  the  man  who  had  probably  used 
all  his  influence  to  set  it  before  her  in  an  attractive 
light.  For,  knowing  nothing  herself  of  Mor- 
ford, she  had  really  imagined  that  when  Peggy 
first  returned  from  the  Rest  House  it  was  the 


142  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Roman  Catholic  religion  and  that  alone  which 
had  so  powerfully  fascinated  her.  It  was  a  re- 
ligion that  did  sometimes  make  this  kind  of  in- 
stant and  violent  appeal  to  the  young,  suscep- 
tible, and  emotional  mind ;  and  she  was  genuinely 
afraid  that  this  had  been  its  effect  upon  Peggy. 
But  that  there  should  be  a  young  man  concerned 
in  the  affair — a  young  man,  too,  who  was  capable 
of  producing  a  visible  emotion  in  Peggy — that 
was  quite  another  matter,  and  placed  things  at 
once  on  a  more  normal,  easy-to-deal-with  basis. 
It  was  indeed  a  case  with  which  Lady  Metcalfe 
from  past  experience  felt  perfectly  competent  to 
cope.  Had  she  not  dealt  skilfully  and  most  suc- 
cessfully— as  she  now  proudly  reflected — with 
the  affair  of  her  second  daughter  Beatrice?  And 
who  could  possibly  be  more  grateful,  more  ap- 
preciative of  that  timely  interference  than  Bea- 
trice herself  after  six  years  of  happy  marriage? 
This  thought  came  into  Lady  Metcalfe's  mind 
with  an  almost  sentimental  self -approbation.  It 
is  true  that  Beatrice's  young  and  ardent  lover  had 
not  been  an  obscure,  ineligible  Catholic  nobody 
like  this  Morford.  He  had  been  boyishly  young 
and  not  at  all  well  off  according  to  Metcalfe 
standards,  but  he  had  been  of  excellent  birth 
and  extraordinarily  handsome  and  agreeable. 
His  mother,  too,  had  spoken  with  tactless  con- 
tempt of  the  Metcalfes,  and  this  had  reached 
Lady  Metcalfe's  ears.  Mrs.  Vernon  had  ac- 
tually (and  most  strangely)  objected  to  a  match 
between  her  only  son  and  Beatrice,  although  the 
latter's  money  would  have  paid  off  all  the  mort- 
gages on  the  property  and  given  the  young  couple 


THE  REST  HOUSE  143 

something  substantial  in  hand.  Sir  John  had 
never  pined  to  pay  off  the  mortgages  on  the 
Vernon  property,  and  besides  Lord  Charsley  had 
already  made  his  intentions  very  clear  to  him. 
The  admirable  parents  had  not  been  without 
misgiving  and  anxiety  about  Beatrice  herself. 
They  knew  she  was  in  love  with  Claude  and  that 
heedless  of  mortgages  or  settlements,  the  pair 
had  plighted  their  troth  to  each  other.  Nothing 
was  said,  but  a  silent,  subtle,  and  relentless  pres- 
sure had  been  applied  to  poor  Beatrice.  Young 
Claude  Vernon  had  been  sent  away  abroad  as  an 
unpaid  attache  to  a  distant  embassy,  and  Bea- 
trice was  not  allowed  to  communicate  with  him. 
At  the  end  of  two  months  the  brilliant  double 
wedding  took  place. 

The  general  who  has  once  been  successful  in 
bringing  off  a  decisive  victory  in  the  face  of  con- 
siderable odds  has  less  fear  of  defeat  in  the 
future.  It  was  so  with  Lady  Metcalfe.  She 
braced  her  mind  to  the  task.  It  may  be  believed 
that  she  felt  a  certain  pleasurable  excitement  in 
the  prospect  of  the  conflict.  She  had  out- 
maneuvred  Love  in  the  case  of  Beatrice,  and  she 
felt  able  if  not  eager  to  deal  in  precisely  the  same 
way  with  Peggy.  History  repeats  itself,  espe- 
cially in  families  where  possibly  the  same  pre- 
dispositions may  not  improbably  be  manifested 
by  the  various  members.  But  in  any  case  it 
would  be  far  easier  to  deal  with  this  affair  of 
Peggy's,  for  Morford  was  not  a  near  neighbor, 
as  Claude  had  been.  Claude  had  been,  so  to 
speak,  a  present  and  imminent  danger,  but  Mor- 
ford lived  far  away  in  the  heart  of  Somersetshire 


144  THE  REST  HOUSE 

in  a  wretched  ramshackle  old  farmhouse  miles 
from  anywhere.  He  was  somebody's  agent. 
Beatrice  had  contrived  to  amas  a  surprising 
amount  of  information  about  the  young  man,  for 
she  had  questioned  Lady  Philippa  very  closely 
on  the  subject. 

There  was,  therefore,  only  one  plan  to  be  pur- 
sued, to  treat  the  whole  affair  with  silent  con- 
tempt and  to  keep  a  vigilant  eye  upon  Peggy 
herself.  Time  and  parting  would  surely  efface 
what  was  on  the  face  of  it  so  undesirable.  After 
all,  the  girl  was  only  twenty,  and  after  a  few 
months  of  the  kind  of  pressure  that  had  been 
applied  so  successfully  to  Beatrice  there  was  no 
doubt  that  Peggy  would  marry  Hugh  without 
demur.  Lady  Metcalfe  prided  herself  upon  the 
fact  that  her  "dear  girls,"  as  she  called  them, 
made  such  excellent  wives  and  mothers;  and 
although  Peggy  had  shown  herself  hitherto  so 
deplorably  different,  there  was  no  doubt  that  in 
the  end  she  would  conform  to  the  high  standard 
of  social  and  domestic  success  set  before  her  by 
her  two  sisters. 

Lady  Metcalfe  also  decided  that  the  affair 
should  not  be  mentioned  to  Sir  John.  He  was 
worried  about  Peter,  who,  though  fairly  diligent, 
was  showing  less  aptitude  for  business  than  he 
could  have  imagined  possible.  Already  there 
had  been  one  or  two  angry  scenes  between  father 
and  son.  It  would  not  be  wise  to  give  Sir  John 
any  further  reason  for  annoyance.  And  he  had 
a  singularly  violent  prejudice  against  Catholics 
—the  more  violent,  perhaps,  because  he  had  him- 
self been  brought  up  as  a  Wesleyan.  These 


THE  REST  HOUSE  145 

prejudices  could  hardly  be  ascribed  to  his  own 
fault,  for  his  father  had  held  them  and  had 
inculcated  them  into  him  at  an  early  age.  Lady 
Metcalfe  by  no  means  shared  the  violence  of  his 
views,  but  she  liad  no  Catholics  among  her  ac- 
quaintance and  regarded  them  rather  as  a  race 
apart  who  perhaps  deserved  pity  for  their  blind- 
ness and  ignorance.  If  they  could  only  have  a 
single  glimpse,  she  felt,  of  the  Protestant  re- 
ligion it  would  surely  suffice  to  make  them  re- 
nounce the  dangerous  superstitions  of  their  own 
errors.  Only  it  was  so  difficult  to  give  them  that 
glimpse — they  were  so  hedged  in  by  the  bitter 
implacability  of  the  priests,  who  ruled  their  lives 
with  such  remorseless  and  ceaseless  vigilance! 

Knowing  exactly  her  husband's  views  on  this 
important  subject,  she  made  no  mention  of  the 
episode  to  him.  To  mention  Morford  one  must 
necessarily  make  mention  also  of  his  religion, 
which  would  at  once  and  inevitably  arouse  Sir 
John's  anger.  It  would  make  things  hard  for 
Peggy  at  this  stage,  when  probably  she  was  feel- 
ing a  little  sore  at  heart  at  this  arbitrary  termi- 
nation of  the  affair.  Violent  opposition  and 
sharp  coercive  measures  had  never  been  success- 
ful in  conquering  Peggy's  tacit  obstinacy,  even 
when  she  was  a  child,  and  they  had  been  em- 
ployed by  no  means  infrequently.  One  forced 
her  into  submission,  but  one  felt  all  the  time  that 
that  fine  spirit  of  hers  was  unconquered  and  ready 
at  the  first  opportunity  to  reassert  itself.  Peggy 
must  not  be  made  to  feel  that  every  one  was 
against  her.  It  might  only  awaken  a  morbid 
sense  of  being  misunderstood  and  thwarted. 


146  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Time  and  a  silent,  loving  surveillance — herein 
lay  Lady  Metcalfe's  best  equipment  for  the  little 
struggle  that  lay  in  front  of  her.  It  would  end, 
she  felt  confident,  in  a  second  triumph  scarcely 
less  brilliant  and  permanent  than  that  achieved 
in  the  case  of  Beatrice. 

"I  am  quite  sorry  that  you  met  this  Mr.  Mor- 
ford  again,"  she  said  to  Peggy  in  the  drawing- 
room  that  evening.  "He  seems  a  rather  dreadful 
person  from  Beatrice's  description." 

"I  do  not  find  him  dreadful,"  said  Peggy, 
steadying  her  voice.  "Of  course  he  is  not  like 
the  men  who  come  here.  He  is  poor  arid  his 
clothes  are  shabby.  He  can  not  help  that." 

Lady  Metcalfe  thought  it  wiser  not  to  pursue 
the  subject. 

Presently  Peggy  looked  up  from  her  work  and 
said: 

"I  do  not  see  what  right  Beatrice  has  to  de- 
spise him.  He  was  staying  with  the  Daltons, 
and  the  Daltons  are  friends  of  hers.  And  he 
knew  Lady  Philippa  Sacheverell — I  saw  them 
dancing  together." 

Her  face  flushed  a  little  with  indignation. 

"Beatrice  knows  my  wishes  so  perfectly,  dear 
Peggy,"  said  Lady  Metcalfe  in  her  placid  way, 
"and  I  can  trust  her  so  perfectly  not  to  let  you 
be  carried  away  by  any  unwise  youthful  en- 
thusiasm. She  was  quite  right  to  send  you 
out  of  harm's  way — from  any  recurrence  of 
this  man's  unwelcome  attentions.  He  ought 
to  have  seen  how  very  young  and  inexperi- 
enced you  were,  and  not  taken  advantage  of  these 
things  to  render  you  so  conspicuous.  I  am  not 


THE  REST  HOUSE  147 

going  to  say  any  more  about  it  now,  Peggy 
dear.  You  have  had  your  lesson  and  I  dare  say 
you  are  feeling  a  little  sore  about  it.  It  is  all 
over  now  and  you  must  look  upon  the  chapter 
as  quite  closed.  I  advise  you  not  to  think  about 
it  any  more.  It  was  unfortunate  that  the  ad- 
venture should  have  happened  to  you,  for  you 
have  never  had  the  same  poise  as  dear  Diana  and 
Beatrice.  But  it  is  all  over  and  you  are  never 
likely  to  see  these  odd  people  again."  She  spoke 
in  a  brisk,  bright  tone  that  was  intended  to  brace. 
But  Peggy  only  went  on  with  her  work  in 
silence.  She  was  wondering  if  it  were  quite  true 
that  she  would  never  be  allowed  to  see  Morford 
again.  There  were  so  many  things  she  still 
wished  to  ask  him,  and  although  he  was  rough 
and  harsh  and  even  impatient  with  her,  his  ex- 
planations, when  he  did  give  them,  were  clear 
and  sank  deeply  and  permanently  into  her  mem- 
ory. Yes,  even  when  he  had  set  down  those  hard 
rules  for  her  daily  life  she  had  accepted  them  as 
part  of  the  teaching  he  was  able  to  give.  She 
realized  perfectly  that  these  were  not  individual 
opinions,  the  views  of  one  particular  man;  they 
all  formed  part  of  that  system  to  which  Mor- 
ford belonged  and  in  conformity  to  which  he 
had  been  educated  and  trained.  The  man  did 
not  count  at  all,  and  Peggy  wondered  why  Bea- 
trice should  be  so  eager  to  denigrate  him.  It 
was  what  he  had  to  say  and  teach  that  mat- 
tered so  much.  He  was  the  messenger  sent  to 
show  her  how  best  to  become  a  Catholic.  Surely 
some  day  he  would  come  back  and  help  to  finish 
the  work  he  had  begun. 


CHAPTER  XI 

UNKNOWN  to  his  wife,  Sir  John  Metcalfe's 
mind  had  been  greatly  preoccupied  of  late 
with  thoughts  and  plans  for  the  future  of  his 
youngest  daughter. 

All  his  other  children  were  now  provided  for 
and  installed,  so  to  speak,  in  their  respective  voca- 
tions. Peter  was  employed  at  the  office,  and 
though  he  showed  no  aptitude  at  all  for  the  work, 
he  was  diligent  and  persevering.  Vivian  was  in 
a  cavalry  regiment  in  India,  where  he  was  rap- 
idly becoming  renowned  as  a  polo  player.  lie 
was  gay  and  handsome  and  popular — perhaps, 
indeed,  he  was  the  handsomest  of  the  Metcalfe 
children — but  his  extravagance  was  appalling, 
and  in  this  respect  he  showed  no  sign  of  amend- 
ment. There  really  only  remained  Peggy  to  be 
considered.  One  day  he  counted  up  the  years 
that  had  elapsed  since  this,  their  last  child,  was 
born,  and  he  discovered  with  some  dismay  that 
they  amounted  to  twenty.  Diana  was  just 
twenty  when  she  married,  but  she  had  been  en- 
gaged for  nearly  a  year  to  Lord  Maddinard  be- 
cause his  father  preferred  that  he  should  wait 
to  marry  till  he  came  of  age.  Beatrice  was  only 
nineteen,  but  her  husband  was  well  on  in  his 
thirties.  There  had  been  no  need  for  them  to  wait ; 
indeed,  there  had  been  every  reason  why  the  mar- 
riage should  take  place  without  delay.  But  so  far 
no  suitor  for  Peggy  had  presented  himself.  Sir 
John  mentally  reviewed  the  neighborhood  of 

148 


THE  REST  HOUSE  149 

Mildon,  but  he  could  find  no  one  at  all  suitable. 
The  same  survey  was  then  applied  to  Peter's 
friends  who  sometimes  stayed  at  Mildon,  but 
he  felt  that  even  among  these  there  was  no  one 
of  sufficient  consequence.  He  wondered  why  his 
wife  had  been  so  dilatory  in  the  matter,  for  it  was 
high  time  that  Peggy  should  marry. 

Sir  John  was  fond  of  Peggy — fonder  perhaps 
than  his  wife  was.  It  seemed  only  the  other 
day  that  Lady  Metcalfe  had  called  her  trouble- 
some, and  had  brought  her  down  to  him  for  cor- 
rection. She  was  the  only  one  of  the  girls  who 
had  ever  been  brought  to  him  for  punishment, 
and  he  imagined  that  Peggy  must  have  been 
flagrantly  naughty  to  induce  his  wife  to  adopt 
this  unusual  course.  She  was  no  longer  trouble- 
some— at  least  as  far  as  Sir  John  knew,  for  he 
had  been  told  nothing  of  the  Morf ord  affair.  She 
seemed  to  be  a  sweet,  docile  girl,  silent,  more 
serious  than  her  sisters  had  been,  but  gentle  in 
her  ways.  Peggy  must  certainly  find  a  husband. 
She  was  an  attractive  little  thing,  not  a  beauty, 
of  course,  like  her  sisters,  but  very  charming 
looking.  Peter  was  very  fond  of  her. 

Some  months  had  passed  since  the  episode  of 
the  Hunt  Ball  when  Sir  John  first  addressed  his 
wife  upon  the  subject  of  Peggy's  future.  Easter 
was  approaching,  and  at  Easter  the  Metcalfes 
generally  had  the  house  full,  prior  to  their  de- 
parture for  London.  Lady  Metcalfe  spent  fewer 
weeks  in  London  now  than  she  had  formerly 
done.  She  did  not  care  about  it  herself  and 
Peggy  was  by  no  means  enthusiastic  and  greatly 
preferred  Mildon. 


150  THE  REST  HOUSE 

"I  should  like,"  he  said  slowly  one  evening, 
when  he  was  alone  with  his  wife,  "to  see  our 
little  Peggy  as  well  and  happily  married  as  her 
sisters." 

He  had  looked  up  quite  suddenly  from  his 
newspaper  when  he  made  this  speech.  Lady 
Metcalfe  was  quite  startled  for  the  moment. 
Then  she  said  quickly: 

"Oh,  Peggy  will  marry  Sir  Hugh  Quentin — 
that  friend  of  Peter's.  He  saw  her  last  summer 
at  Oxford  and  they  met  again  at  Beatrice's  in  the 
winter.  He  is  in  love  with  her — he  spoke  quite 
definitely  to  Beatrice." 

"Then  why,"  said  Sir  John,  laying  down  his 
newspaper  with  a  frown,  "has  nothing  been 
settled?  Peggy  is  twenty — she  is  as  old  as  Diana 
was  when  she  married.  I  will  not  have  young 
men  who  can  not  make  up  their  minds  hanging 
about  my  daughters!" 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  Hugh  has  made  up  his  mind," 
replied  Lady  Metcalfe  uneasily,  "but  I  wasn't 
sure  about  Peggy.  I  was  afraid  that  if  he  spoke 
too  soon  she  might  refuse  him.  Peggy  is  differ- 
ent from  the  others,  and  she  has  always  been 
troublesome,"  she  added,  falling  back  upon  the 
old  formula. 

"Does  Peggy  know  of  this  man's  intentions?" 
inquired  Sir  John,  who  began  to  consider  that 
he  had  been  kept  unnecessarily  in  the  dark  about 
the  whole  affair. 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  she  does,"  said  Lady 
Metcalfe.  "I  have  never  spoken  to  her  about 
it.  I  do  not  know  if  Beatrice  has.  To  tell  you 


THE  REST  HOUSE  151 

the  truth,  I  hoped  that  Peggy  might  return  en- 
gaged from  Lavender  last  January." 

"I  think  you  had  better  ask  him  here  for 
Easter,"  said  Sir  John,  who  knew  all  about  Sir 
Hugh  Quentin,  although  he  had  never  seen  him. 
"That  will  give  them  the  chance  to  make  up  their 
minds.  They  could  be  married  as  soon  as  they 
like — there  is  nothing  for  them  to  wait  for.  I 
shall  give  Peggy  just  what  I  gave  her  sisters  if 
she  makes  a  marriage  that  meets  with  my  ap- 
proval. Perhaps  you  had  better  speak  to  her 
about  it." 

"I  think  it  would  be  better  to  leave  the  speak- 
ing to  Hugh,"  said  Lady  Metcalfe.  "I  will  write 
and  ask  him  to  come.  They  haven't  seen  each 
other  for  nearly  three  months — they  have  had 
plenty  of  time  to  think  it  over."  She  added  with 
a  sigh,  "You  must  not  count  too  much  upon 
Peggy,  John.  If  she  takes  it  into  her  head  that 
she  won't  marry  Hugh  I  am  sure  we  shall  never 
be  able  to  persuade  her  to.  She  is  not  like  Bea- 
trice." 

"I  think  you'd  better  sound  her  first,  then,  my 
dear.  See  if  she  likes  the  idea  of  his  coming.  I 
don't  want  to  force  the  girl  against  her  will,  and 
at  the  same  time  we  can't  ask  him  here  just  to  be 
flouted!" 

He  went  back  to  his  newspaper  and  Lady  Met- 
calfe went  on  with  the  novel  she  was  reading. 
Yes;  that  would  be  an  excellent  idea.  It  would 
not  be  necessary  to  say  a  great  deal  to  Peggy, 
but  she  would  tell  her  that  they  were  thinking 
of  asking  Hugh  and  watch  the  effect  upon  her. 


152  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Surely  in  the  last  three  months  spent  quietly  at 
Mildon  Peggy  had  had  ample  time  to  meditate 
upon  her  folly,  and  to  eliminate  the  image  of 
Morford  from  her  mind. 

She  said  carelessly  to  Peggy  on  the  following 
morning: 

"Your  father  wishes  Sir  Hugh  Quentin  to  be 
asked  here  for  Easter.  I  hope  you  do  not  object 
to  his  coming,  Peggy?" 

It  was  warily  put,  although  Lady  Metcalfe  had 
no  intention  of  setting  a  trap.  A  very  faint  flush 
came  over  Peggy's  face  as  she  answered,  "Oh, 
no;  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  him.  Peter  will 
like  to  have  him." 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  perfect,  more 
delicately  maidenly.  Lady  Metcalfe  looked  ap- 
provingly at  her  daughter.  But  she  said  nothing 
more.  If  Peggy  had  no  objection  one  could  re- 
gard the  whole  affair  as  settled. 

Quentin  accepted  the  invitation  and  appeared 
on  the  day  appointed — the  Saturday  before 
Easter.  He  had  been  restless  and  unhappy  dur- 
ing these  past  months,  and  though  he  had  tried 
to  divert  himself  at  Monte  Carlo,  the  attempt  had 
not  been  very  successful.  Peggy  was  constantly 
in  his  thoughts.  But  the  remembrance  of  those 
days  at  Lavender  gave  him,  it  must  be  said,  very 
little  food  for  hope. 

The  invitation  to  Mildon,  received  a  few  days 
after  his  return  to  town,  came  like  a  bolt  from 
the  blue.  He  had  never  stayed  there  before  and 
Lady  Metcalfe's  note  was  charmingly  worded. 
Hugh  was  determined  that  nothing  should  pre- 
vent him  from  asking  Peggy  to  be  his  wife.  He 


THE  REST  HOUSE  153 

knew  he  had  the  approbation  of  Lady  Charsley 
and  he  believed  now  that  Peggy's  parents  shared 
that  approval.  He  was  in  good  spirits  when  he 
arrived  at  Mildon,  and  had  something  of  the 
arrogance  of  a  man  who  is  certain  that  he  is 
going  forth  to  conquer. 

There  was  a  dinner  party  on  the  Saturday 
night  and  some  of  the  more  prominent  of  their 
country  neighbors  had  been  invited.  Lady  Met- 
calfe  had  shown  of  late  a  disposition  to  fuss  about 
Peggy's  clothes;  she  had  accompanied  her  to 
town  on  several  shopping  expeditions,  and  had 
chosen  most  of  her  things  herself.  Peggy  never, 
she  affirmed,  had  any  ideas  about  clothes  and 
would  have  gone  on  cheerfully  wearing  the  same 
old  things  from  year  to  year. 

She  came  up  to  her  daughter's  room  that  eve- 
ning when  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner  and 
said: 

"I  want  you  to  wear  that  new  pink  dress  of 
yours,  Peggy.  And  tell  Valerie  to  part  your 
hair  on  one  side.  I  should  like  you  to  look  as 
much  like  Deirdre  O'Mara  as  possible." 

Peggy  flushed.  She  had  seen  Deirdre  O'Mara 
in  some  of  her  most  celebrated  parts,  and  she 
had  felt  half  attracted  and  half  repelled  by  the 
Celtic  witchery  of  the  woman  who  disdained  all 
theatrical  make-up  and  refused  to  allow  her 
strange  white  face  to  be  reddened  or  whitened  by 
grease  paint. 

"Why  do  you  want  me  to  look  like  Deirdre 
O'Mara?"  she  said  in  a  low,  constrained  tone. 

Lady  Metcalfe  paused.  She  felt  she  could  not 
say,  "Because  Sir  Hugh  said  you  were  like  her 


154  THE  REST  HOUSE 

and  he  used  to  admire  her  very  much" — it  might 
arouse  Peggy's  suspicions  and  obstinacy.  That 
was  the  worst  of  Peggy — one  never  felt  sure  of 
her.  One  could  not  count  upon  her  loyal  sub- 
mission. To  either  of  her  elder  daughters  Lady 
Metcalfe  would  certainly  have  given  her  real 
reason  and  perhaps  added  a  tentative  word  about 
her  own  hopes,  counting,  too,  upon  a  filial  co- 
operation. But  there  was  something  in  the  crude 
bluntness  of  Peggy's  question  that  seemed  to  put 
her  mother  in  the  wrong — almost  as  if  she  be- 
lieved that  she  were  intriguing  against  her.  Her 
words  suggested  a  reproach.  How  absurd  when 
she  had  neither  wish  nor  thought  except  for  her 
daughter's  welfare ! 

"You  are  very  like  her,"  she  said  cautiously; 
"people  have  noticed  it.  It  is  always  a  good  thing 
for  a  girl  to  be  thought  like  a  celebrated  beauty — 
people  begin  to  admire  her  at  once.  Deirdre 
O'Mara  is  considered  a  very  beautiful  woman." 

"I  do  not  want  to  be  admired,"  said  Peggy 
slowly.  She  was  standing  on  the  hearth-rug 
looking  rather  intently  at  the  flames  as  they 
played  and  leaped  about  a  huge  oak  log.  There 
were  blue  flames  as  well  as  red  and  orange;  the 
effect  was  pretty. 

"That  is  nonsense,"  said  Lady  Metcalfe 
briskly ;  "all  girls  like  to  be  admired  by  the  right 
man." 

Peggy  felt  a  little  uneasy  when  her  mother 
had  left  the  room.  The  episode,  sufficiently  in- 
significant in  itself,  had  aroused  a  whole  army  of 
disquieting  suspicions — little,  teasing,  worrying 
things  that  resembled  a  swarm  of  mosquitoes. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  155 

Suddenly  she  remembered  with  a  flash  almost 
of  illumination  a  chance  word  she  had  once  heard 
spoken  about  Hugh  Quentin.  It  was  at  Oxford 
last  summer,  and  some  woman  had  remarked  to 
Diana,  "Poor  Hugh  seems  quite  to  have  got  over 
his  infatuation  for  Deirdre  O'Mara  at  last !"  She 
had  never  thought  about  it  again,  but  something 
in  her  mother's  words  had  awakened  the  dormant 
memory.  It  suddenly  became  apparent  to  Peggy 
why  Hugh  had  been  invited  to  Mildon.  It  was 
not  on  Peter's  account  at  all — it  was  on  her  own. 
The  scales  fell  suddenly  from  Peggy's  eyes,  and 
her  heart  began  to  beat  so  violently  that  it  almost 
suffocated  her.  She  saw  the  first  edge  of  the  net 
into  which  in  days  gone  by  Diana  and  Beatrice 
had  both  stepped,  one  cheerfully  and  the  other 
reluctantly,  and  she  wondered  whether  she  would 
dare  refuse  when  it  came  to  her  turn.  She  had  not 
perceived  its  approach ;  it  had  revealed  itself  sud- 
denly, and  she  felt  for  the  moment  stupefied  at 
the  sight.  She  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  tried  to 
arrange  her  chaotic  thoughts  a  little. 

Peter  had  conformed  to  his  parents'  wishes,  and 
she  alone  knew  perhaps  with  what  interior  re- 
bellion he  had  done  so.  But  it  was  a  chain  from 
which  he  could  free  himself  at  any  time  without 
sin.  Marriage  was  a  very  different  thing — mar- 
riage bound  you  for  life ;  it  meant  the  surrender 
of  soul  and  body  for  always.  Only  love  could  make 
such  surrender  desirable  and  inevitable.  With- 
out love  it  could  surely  only  be  imprisonment,  a 
fettering  of  soul  and  sense.  She  was  certain  that 
she  had  in  her  heart  no  feeling  for  Hugh  Quen- 
tin such  as  his  wife  ought  to  have.  If  he  were 


156  THE  REST  HOUSE 

coming  to  Mildon  on  her  account  he  had  far 
better  remain  away. 

In  those  three  months  that  had  elapsed  since 
their  last  meeting  Peggy  had  strenuously  endeav- 
ored to  rule  and  discipline  her  life  as  Morford 
had  recommended  her  to  do.  She  had  tried  to  be 
obedient,  docile,  submissive.  She  had  subjected 
her  words  and  actions  to  a  strict  self-control. 
She  had  made  the  daily  offering  of  all  things 
small  and  great  to  God.  She  had  carefully 
studied  the  books  Morford  had  given  her,  and  she 
knew  now  all  that  was  most  essential  for  a  Cath- 
olic to  know.  And  somewhere  in  her  heart  was 
the  thought  that  as  soon  as  she  came  of  age  she 
would  take  that  step — that  plunge  into  the  un- 
known— and  become  a  Catholic.  She  did  not 
very  often  put  that  thought  into  actual  words,  for 
it  was  a  very  solemn  as  well  as  a  very  terrifying 
one,  and  she  could  not  imagine  how  she  should 
ever  accomplish  such  a  thing.  But  she  had  the 
feeling  that  all  her  present  life  was  leading  up 
to  that  one  crowning  hour  when  she  should  kneel 
before  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  a  Catholic  in  name 
as  well  as  in  heart. 

To-night  she  could  not  help  thinking  of  that 
future  day,  and  she  saw  in  Hugh  Quentin  some 
one  who  could  not  help  her  at  all,  but  who  might 
prove  rather  a  hindrance  and  an  obstacle.  She 
wished  he  had  not  been  asked  to  come. 

Then  she  looked  round  the  room  and  saw  that 
outspread  upon  the  bed  was  the  lovely  new  pink 
dress  which  was  so  like  one  that  Deirdre  O'Mara 
had  worn  in  her  most  successful  and  daring  part. 
A  sudden  hatred  of  it  came  over  Peggy.  She 


THE  REST  HOUSE  157 

looked  at  it  with  anger  in  her  eyes,  and  at  the 
little  gold  shoes,  and  the  gold  fillet  she  was  to 
wear  in  her  dark  hair.  Deirdre  O'Mara  had  worn 
just  such  shoes  on  her  feet,  just  such  a  fillet  in  her 
hair. 

These  things,  pretty  in  themselves,  produced  a 
sudden  revulsion  in  Peggy.  She  would  not  wear 
them!  She  would  throw  down  the  glove!  She 
would  not  parry  and  deceive  and  pretend  not  to 
understand,  now  that  her  eyes  had  been  opened. 
Her  nature  was  frank ;  she  had  something  of  her 
grandfather  Lampard's  bluntness  and  honesty. 

Valerie  came  into  the  room  carrying  some  hot 
water.  She  was  a  young  French  girl  who  had 
been  sent  by  Diana,  in  whose  service  she  had  been 
employed  as  children's  maid.  She  knew  almost 
all  that  there  was  to  be  known  about  the  Met- 
calfes;  she  was  aware  that  something  had  oc- 
curred at  the  Hunt  Ball  last  January  to  cut  short 
her  young  mistress's  stay  at  Lavender,  and  in 
common  with  the  rest  of  the  servants  at  Mildon 
she  had  guessed  at  the  reason  of  Sir  Hugh 
Quentin's  present  visit.  His  valet  was  a  singu- 
larly intelligent,  well-informed  young  man. 

She  could,  in  fact,  have  told  Peggy  many 
things  had  Peggy  ever  sought  her  confidence. 

Peggy  pointed  now  to  the  litter  of  finery  upon 
the  bed. 

"I'm  not  going  to  wear  those  things  to-night, 
Valerie,"  she  said  with  unusual  decision. 

Valerie  had  seen  a  picture  post-card  in  Lady 
Metcalfe's  room  only  a  few  days  ago  which  had 
been  a  source  of  considerable  enlightenment  to 
her.  It  bore  on  its  reverse  side  a  flattering  photo- 


158  THE  REST  HOUSE 

graph  recently  taken  of  Deirdre  O'Mara,  dressed 
in  exactly  such  a  dress  as  the  one  Miss  Metcalfe 
was  now  repudiating.  The  face  on  the  photo- 
graph was  extremely  like  Miss  Metcalfe's,  except 
that  it  was  more  intelligent  and  much  more 
sophisticated.  It  had  not  that  serene  look  of 
almost  Puritan  innocence  that  characterized 
Peggy's.  But  the  likeness  was  nevertheless  strik- 
ing, and  Valerie  had  quickly  perceived  that  for 
some  occult  reason  of  her  own — a  very  wise 
one,  no  doubt — Lady  Metcalfe  in  choosing  this 
dress  for  her  daughter  had  desired  to  empha- 
size it. 

Valerie  stared  as  if  she  could  hardly  believe 
the  evidence  of  her  own  hearing.  She  made  no 
attempt  to  obey. 

"Put  them  all  away  at  once,  please,"  said 
Peggy  in  an  unusually  authoritative  tone,  "and 
put  out  my  black  dress  and  black  shoes." 

Valerie  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  remonstrate, 
but  a  glance  at  her  young  mistress  seemed  to  sug- 
gest that  silence  would  be  more  prudent.  Still 
her  orders  from  Lady  Metcalfe  had  been  equally 
definite  and  peremptory.  She  hesitated. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for?"  said  Peggy. 
"There  is  no  time  to  lose.  I  shall  be  late  as  it  is." 

Her  own  courage  was  of  less  hardy  a  quality 
than  could  be  gathered  from  her  words. 

"Milady  will  not  be  pleased.  Milady  said  she 
would  come  and  see  you  when  you  were  dressed, 
to  see  if  her  orders  had  been  carried  out.  She 
was  very  particular  in  the  instructions  she  gave." 

"Look  here,  Valerie,"  said  Peggy,  "you  must 
please  understand  I  intend  to  wear  my  black 


THE  REST  HOUSE  159 

dress  to-night.  Don't  say  another  word  or  I 
shall  send  you  out  of  the  room  and  dress  my- 
self." 

Valerie  had  never  heard  Peggy  speak  like  that 
before.  She  was  always  quiet  and  gentle  when 
she  spoke  to  her  maid.  But  to-night  there  was  a 
flush  almost  of  anger  in  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes 
were  shining  very  brightly.  Although  her  con- 
science was  not  very  clear,  she  felt  quite  sure  of 
one  thing — that  at  all  costs  she  would  not  remind 
Hugh  Quentin  of  Deirdre  O'Mara  to-night.  In 
inviting  him  to  come  she  felt  that  her  parents  had 
placed  them  both  in  a  false  position.  She  must 
remedy  things  as  far  as  she  was  able. 

Valerie  was  doing  her  hair  when  Peggy  sud- 
denly said :  "Give  me  the  brush.  I'm  going  to  do 
my  own  hair."  She  undid  it  quickly  and  with  a 
swift  movement  parted  it  again  down  the  middle 
instead  of  at  the  side,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that 
when  Valerie  had  arranged  her  hair  thus  she 
looked  terribly  like  Deirdre  O'Mara.  Peggy's 
hair  was  fine  and  lustrous  as  black  silk ;  she  gath- 
ered it  simply  in  a  knot  low  at  the  base  of  her 
neck.  It  displayed  as  no  more  complicated  and 
elaborate  method  could  have  done  the  simple  per- 
fection of  contour  that  was  hers.  She  had  those 
twin  beauties — a  long  neck  and  a  small  head. 
And  she  carried  herself  well,  which  made  up  in 
great  measure  for  her  lack  of  inches.  To-night 
she  looked  beautiful,  and  she  recognized  the  fact 
and  hated  it.  She  did  not  want  to  look  pretty. 
The  black  dress  was  the  most  unbecoming  one 
she  possessed;  it  was  not  at  all  new,  for  she  had 
had  it  more  than  a  year  ago  when  they  all 


160  THE  REST  HOUSE 

mourned  for  a  decorous  few  weeks  for  Sir  John's 
elderly  half-sister,  whom  they  had  scarcely  ever 
seen.  But  she  had  been  a  Metcalfe  and  there- 
fore the  conventionalities  were  observed.  Peggy 
knew  perfectly  well  that  it  was  not  customary  for 
girls  of  her  age  to  wear  black  except  when  they 
were  in  mourning,  and  black  was  not  at  all  be- 
coming to  her,  she  was  too  dark  and  pale.  It 
took  away  something  of  her  look  of  youth.  She 
stood  up  when  she  was  ready  and  surveyed  her- 
self in  the  long  glass. 

Valerie,  who  was  desperately  afraid  of  Lady 
Metcalfe,  was  inclined  to  be  tearful. 

"Milady  will  dismiss  me  for  not  obeying  her," 
she  whimpered. 

Peggy  felt  oddly  excited.  She  took  no  notice 
of  Valerie,  but  curtsied  to  herself  in  the  glass 
and  then  pirouetted  lightly  on  one  foot.  It  was 
her  first  definite  and  open  act  of  rebellion  against 
that  suddenly  disclosed  plan  to  marry  her  to 
Hugh  Quentin.  She  was,  however,  feeling  a 
vague  alarm  at  her  own  temerity;  she  almost 
wished  now  that  she  had  worn  the  pink  dress. 
There  was  something  guilty  and  feverish  about 
this  excitement  of  hers ;  she  felt  as  she  had  done 
when  she  was  a  small  child  and  had  deliberately 
embarked  upon  a  disobedient  course.  The  thrill 
of  it — the  joy  of  it — that  no  dark  prospect  of 
future  retribution  could  quite  quench !  It  was  the 
passionate  assertion  of  independence  so  dear  to 
souls  that  are  born  free.  Even  when  she  had  been 
caught  and  whipped  in  those  days  Peggy  had  felt 
that  that  tameless  something  within  her  was  still 
untouched  and  unhurt. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  161 

Still  the  click  of  the  handle  as  Lady  Metcalfe 
opened  the  door  and  made  her  majestic  entrance 
into  the  room  did  momentarily  force  her  heart 
downward  toward  those  little  black  satin  shoes 
that  had  so  recently  been  employed  in  that  airy 
capering.  It  sent  the  blood  to  her  face,  and  even 
to  herself  she  felt  and  was  afraid  also  that  she 
looked  like  a  small  and  guilty  child  who  has  been 
caught  red-handed  in  the  performance  of  some 
infantile  felony. 

"Peggy,  what  have  you  got  on?"  inquired  Lady 
Metcalfe. 

In  that  single  glance  all  her  sense  of  content- 
ment and  complacency  had  been  rudely  dispelled. 
She  had  pictured  Peggy  in  the  pink  dress,  look- 
ing deliciously  like  Deirdre  O'Mara — perhaps 
proving  doubly  attractive  to  Hugh  for  that  very 
reason. 

"My  black  dress,"  replied  Peggy. 

They  stood  and  faced  each  other  for  a  curious 
and  uncomfortable  moment  of  mutual  compre- 
hension, at  once  illuminating  and  disconcerting. 

"You  must  change  it  at  once.  You  have  just 
got  ten  minutes.  The  Gillespies  are  always  late 
—you  know  what  airs  she  gives  herself!" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  change  it,  please, 
mother,"  said  Peggy  with  something  of  entreaty 
in  her  voice.  "I  made  up  my  mind  I  would  wear 
it  instead  of  the  pink  dress.  I  don't  want  to  look 
like  Deirdre  O'Mara!" 

There  was  a  hint  now  of  the  old  passionate, 
rebellious,  troublesome  Peggy. 

"Don't  be  childish,  Peggy,"  said  Lady  Met- 
calfe, who  realized  that  to  give  way  to  anger 


162  THE  REST  HOUSE 

would  certainly  upset  her  for  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing, besides  being  utterly  disastrous  to  a  com- 
plexion that  in  middle  age  had  an  unfortunate 
tendency  to  be  florid.  "You're  much  too  young 
to  wear  black,  and  besides  that  dress  is  quite  out 
of  fashion.  The  skirt  looks  perfectly  ridiculous. 
Skirts  are  so  narrow  now.  You  must  take  it  off 
at  once.  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  looking  so 
dowdy — you  might  be  the  governess!" 

Peggy  realized  that  the  net  was  outspread,  and 
that  she  must  either  refuse  to  entangle  her  feet 
in  it  or  make  the  first  step  toward  that  intolerable 
doom. 

Valerie  had  slipped  away  at  the  first  approach 
of  Lady  Metcalfe,  so  that  Peggy  and  her  mother 
were  alone.  They  both  felt  that  they  had  never 
seen  each  other  so  clearly — never  understood  each 
other  so  perfectly — before. 

"Mother,"  said  Peggy  desperately,  "I  am  not 
going  to  marry  Hugh  Quentin.  It  isn't  a  bit  of 
use  your  trying  to  make  me.  I'm  not  Diana  and 
I'm  not  Beatrice — I  can't  be  forced  into  it !"  The 
words  came  so  swiftly  almost  as  if  they  were 
tumbling  over  each  other,  and  at  the  end  of  this 
little  fiercely  mutinous  speech  Peggy  gasped  for 
breath.  "Oh,  I'm  ready  to  obey  you  in — in 
almost  everything.  I've  tried  to  be  a  good  daugh- 
ter to  you — you  can  not  imagine  how  hard  I  have 
tried;  but  this  is  impossible  and  it  would  be 
wrong."  She  stopped,  gazing  at  Lady  Metcalfe 
with  shining  eyes. 

She  stood  there  trembling  like  a  lily  in  a  storm. 
A  lily  black-petalled  but  lovely  and  graceful,  if 
a  little  tragic  in  her  physical  fragility.  Lady 


THE  REST  HOUSE  163 

Metcalfe  was  completely  startled  out  of  that 
serene  complacency  that  fitted  her  like  a  wonder- 
ful garment  of  chain-mail. 

"If  I  were  not  afraid  of  annoying  your  father 
I  should  say  that  you  are  to  wear  what  I  wish  or 
remain  upstairs.  But  he  would  be  very  angry 
if  }rou  did  not  appear,  and  you  know  it  is  not  very 
pleasant  for  you  when  he  is  really  put  out.  I  am 
afraid  it  is  too  late  for  you  to  change  now.  You 
must  come  down  as  you  are.  If  your  father 
notices  you  and  disapproves,  you  will  only  have 
yourself  to  thank.  I  am  extremely  annoyed  with 
you,  Peggy." 

Her  avoidance  of  any  mention  of  Quentin's 
name  was  intentional.  There  would  be  plenty  of 
time  to  discuss  that  matter  later  on.  Had  not 
Beatrice  once  said  as  much — even  more? 

As  they  passed  downstairs  they  felt  the  cold 
draught  of  air  from  an  unseen  window,  carelessly 
left  open.  Lady  Metcalfe  gave  a  little  appro- 
priate shiver,  but  Peggy  paused  so  that  the  cold- 
ness of  the  air  might  linger  for  a  moment  on  her 
face.  It  seemed  to  give  her  courage — to  tell  her 
that  outside  the  world  lay  free  and  beautiful 
under  the  stars,  swept  by  winds,  warmed  by  sun- 
shine. Nature  always  appealed  passionately  to 
Peggy,  its  roughness,  wildness,  the  very  wanton- 
ness of  its  destructiveness,  its  careless  indiffer- 
ence to  hurt. 

Here  one  was — as  Peter  had  once  said — suffo- 
cated. 

Lady  Metcalfe,  before  she  had  arrived  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs,  had  lulled  her  mind  into  the 
pleasant  and  complacent  belief  that  Peggy  looked 


164  THE  REST  HOUSE 

extraordinarily  well  in  black.  It  was,  of  course, 
very  naughty  and  rebellious  of  her  to  behave  like 
this,  and  to  announce  so  bluntly  her  refusal  to 
marry  Quentin.  But  many  girls  disliked  the  idea 
of  too  early  a  marriage — one  need  not  attach  any 
importance  to  that.  She  looked  again  at  the 
slight  white  arms,  the  delicate  throat,  the  slim, 
small  form  swathed  in  deep,  soft,  clinging  black. 
And  although  the  dress  was  old-fashioned,  it  had 
been  a  very  expensive  one,  copied  from  an  ex- 
clusive Paris  model.  And  Lady  Metcalfe,  de- 
termined to  make  the  best  of  things,  assured  her- 
self that  it  brought  out  something  that  was  at 
once  individual  and  arresting  in  Peggy's  ap- 
pearance; it  gave  her  quite  a  distinguished 
look. 

"She's  really  much  more  beautiful  than  Deirdre 
O'Mara,  and  then  she's  ten  years  younger!"  she 
thought  to  herself  with  a  little  secret  triumph. 

Peggy  had  made  her  first  move  and  won  her 
point,  and  although  her  mother's  displeasure 
made  her  feel  uncomfortable,  she  was  not  without 
a  sense  of  satisfaction.  When  they  entered  the 
big  drawing-room — a  very  sumptuous  apartment 
with  other  smaller  rooms  leading  from  it — they 
found  Sir  John  alone  reading  the  evening  paper. 

He  looked  up  and  his  eye  fell  disapprovingly 
upon  his  daughter. 

"What  are  you  wearing  black  for?"  he  asked. 
His  wife  had  told  him  that  Peggy  was  to  wear  a 
new  and  very  pretty  pink  dress  to-night.  He 
disliked  black,  could  not  bear  his  wife  to  wear 
it,  and  he  thought  it  singularly  unbecoming  to 
Peggy. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  165 

"I  like  black,"  said  Peggy  in  a  low  voice, 
scarcely  aware  of  what  she  said. 

"You  must  give  Peggy  a  good  scolding  to- 
morrow," said  Lady  Metcalfe;  "she's  very 
naughty  and  rebellious  and  refused  to  wear  her 
new  dress.  And  it  was  such  a  delicious  model — 
I  should  never  have  gone  to  that  expense  if  I  had 
thought  she  would  appreciate  it  so  little." 

"You  look  very  ugly  in  black,"  said  Sir  John, 
with  one  of  his  cold,  withering  smiles. 

Peter  appeared  from  the  room  beyond  at  that 
moment  accompanied  by  Sir  Hugh  Quentin,  who, 
after  shaking  hands  with  Peggy,  turned  away 
and  began  to  talk  to  Lady  Metcalfe. 

Peggy  watched  him  critically.  He  was  tall 
and  fair  and  rather  colorless ;  his  hair  was  almost 
flaxen  and  he  wore  it  cut  very  short ;  his  eyes  were 
narrow  and  gray  and  he  had  rather  a  long  upper 
lip.  There  was  something  nice  about  him — 
straightforward,  simple,  and  wholesome.  He 
had  the  very  clean  look  which  is  seen  to  especial 
perfection  in  a  fair  Englishman.  His  linen  was 
spotless  and  his  clothes  were  beautifully  cut. 
Peggy  wondered  why  she  found  him  so  little  at- 
tractive— this  man  whom  her  parents  wished  her 
to  marry. 

The  Rector  and  his  wife  came  in.  Mr.  Sturgess 
was  tall,  clean-shaven,  with  a  hearty  manner  in- 
dicative of  good-fellowship.  His  wife,  a  thin, 
nervous  woman,  wore  her  hair  scraped  back  from 
her  forehead  with  a  knot  of  rolls  pitched  at  an 
unbecoming  angle,  but  so  rich  and  glossy  that 
the  most  indulgent  observer  could  scarcely  have 
supposed  them  to  be  indigenous  to  that  sterile 


166  THE  REST  HOUSE 

soil.  She  smiled  at  Peggy  and  said  with  cheer- 
ful tactlessness:  "I  hope  you  are  not  in  mourn- 
ing, my  dear!" 

"Oh,  no;  our  mourning  was  over  long  ago,'* 
said  Peggy,  smiling. 

"You're  too  young  to  wear  black,"  said  Mrs. 
Sturgess,  whose  own  dingy  black  satin  had  seen 
many  years  of  honorable  usage.  "I  wonder  your 
mother  doesn't  dress  you  in  white — it's  so  much 
more  suitable  for  young  girls.  Or  pale  pink  I 
think  would  suit  you,  as  you  are  so  dark." 

Peggy  smiled  remotely. 

"Mother  said  I  should  look  like  the  governess," 
she  said  in  a  low,  confidential  tone. 

Mrs.  Sturgess  had  been  a  governess  in  a  great 
family  and  had  married  the  curate  of  the  parish, 
and  any  allusion  to  her  former  profession  made 
her  feel  almost  as  guilty  as  if  it  had  been  of  a 
criminal  nature.  She  blushed  and  blinked  her 
eyes,  not  knowing  whether  to  take  offense. 

The  Gillespies  came  in  late,  as  Lady  Metcalfe 
had  prophesied.  Mrs.  Gillespie  was  an  Ameri- 
can, very  rich  and  always  beautifully  dressed. 
She  towered  above  her  husband,  who  was  small 
and  fat  and  fair.  Though  he  was  over  forty,  he 
had  something  of  the  aspect  of  a  good-tempered 
schoolboy. 

"Well,  Hugh,"  said  Mrs.  Gillespie,  holding  out 
a  tiny  white-gloved  hand  to  Quentin,  "what  are 
you  doing  in  this  part  of  the  world?" 

"I'm  stajTing  here,"  said  Hugh  laconically. 

"Hullo,  Hugh!  Why  haven't  you  been  over 
to  see  us?"  said  Mr.  Gillespie. 

"I   only  came   down   to-night,"   said  Hugh. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  167 

"But  I  meant  to  give  myself  that  pleasure  very 
soon." 

"Come  on  Monday,"  said  Mrs.  Gillespie. 
"Come  to  lunch.  Make  Peter  bring  you  over." 
She  smiled  at  Peter. 

"Thanks  very  much,"  said  Peter  and  Hugh 
almost  in  a  breath. 

Lady  Metcalfe  heard  the  invitation  given  and 
promptly  accepted,  and  she  thought  it  a  singu- 
larly tactless  one.  She  did  not  invite  important 
young  men  down  to  Mildon  to  fill  Mrs.  Gil- 
lespie's  luncheon  table.  Monday  would  be  Bank 
Holiday — a  day  when  there  was  nothing  to  do, 
and  she  had  intended  that  whether  Peggy  liked 
it  or  not,  she  should  see  a  great  deal  of  Hugh. 
She  had  even  planned  a  long  motor  excursion. 
For  she  attached  little  importance  to  Peggy's 
fierce  asseverations.  The  girl  only  required  a  little 
time  to  accustom  herself  to  the  idea.  A  little  time 
in  which  to  think  it  over,  a  little  application  of 
firm  parental  pressure,  and  the  wedding  would 
ensue  quite  naturally.  It  had  always  been 
Peggy's  way  to  create  a  disturbance;  she  could 
never  comply  amenably,  gracefully,  as  her  sisters 
had  done. 

Hugh  took  Peggy  in  to  dinner,  and  during  the 
first  part  of  that  meal  she  sat  by  his  side,  stiff  and 
silent  and  sullen.  She  wanted  to  make  him  hate 
her  so  much  that  he  would  not  wish  to  marry 
her  any  more.  And  if  he  didn't  wish  it  her 
parents  could  not  possibly  force  her  into  his  arms. 
She  had  liked  him  very  much  last  summer  at 
Oxford,  and  she  had  treated  him  in  the  frank, 
sisterly  fashion  she  had  always  shown  to  Peter's 


168  THE  REST  HOUSE 

friends.  But  the  sight  of  the  net  had  been  as  the 
touch  of  a  whip  to  a  high-spirited  horse;  it  had 
made  her  restive. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  Have  I  done 
anything  to  offend  you?"  said  Hugh  at  last,  after 
he  had  borne  a  couple  of  delicate  snubs  with  ad- 
mirable patience. 

"You  haven't  done  anything;  I  wasn't  think- 
ing of  you,"  said  Peggy  with  a  light  disdain.  She 
did  not  know  herself  to-night;  she  felt  excited, 
daring,  a  little  beyond  herself.  She  turned  a 
black  shoulder  to  Hugh  and  he  could  catch  only 
the  glimpse  of  a  pale  profil  perdu  as  she  began 
to  talk  to  Mr.  Sturgess,  who  was  sitting  at  her 
other  side.  Lady  Metcalfe  had  felt  so  confident 
that  this  arrangement  would  offer  Peggy  no 
temptation  to  neglect  Hugh  during  dinner. 

The  young  man  was  dismayed.  He  in  turn 
became  sullen.  Had  he  been  invited  down  here 
just  to  be  made  a  fool  of?  Surely  Lady  Charsley, 
who  was  in  his  confidence,  had  informed  her 
mother  of  the  state  of  affairs. 

He  turned  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Gillespie,  who  re- 
garded him  with  her  curious  eyes,  which  were 
almost  as  green  as  jewels. 

"What  are  you  really  doing  down  here, 
Hugh?"  she  inquired  in  the  hollow,  rather  sepul- 
chral voice  which  people  thought  so  attractive; 
"no  one  would  stay  in  this  house  for  the  good  of 
their  health — it  is  far  too  stuffy !  Are  you  after 
the  shekels?  There  are  simply  lots  of  them,  you 
know!" 

She  was  good-looking  in  rather  a  weird  way, 
with  her  green  eyes,  heavily  lashed,  a  dead  white 


THE  REST  HOUSE  169 

skin,  and  pale  golden  hair.  She  was  dressed  in 
green  with  touches  of  silver  and  she  wore  some 
very  fine  emeralds.  She  made  Hugh  think  of  a 
snake — a  snake  that  was  not  poisonous. 

"The  shekels  aren't  taking  any,"  said  Hugh 
with  a  grimace  that  was  intended  to  hide  his  hurt. 

"Lucky  for  you.  What  do  you  want  a  wife  for 
at  your  age?  Wait  till  you're  forty!" 

"Oh,  I  mean  to  marry  as  soon  as  possible,"  said 
Hugh.  "I'm  awfully  bored  down  at  my  place 
since  my  mother  married  again." 

His  face  broke  into  a  smile. 

"People  have  called  her  pretty,"  said  Mrs. 
Gillespie  in  a  very  low,  deep  tone  and  bending 
a  little  forward  so  as  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
averted  Peggy,  "like  Deirdre  O'Mara  and  all  that 
kind  of  thing.  Why,  I  never  saw  such  a  dowdy 
little  thing  in  my  life — that  black  dress  must  be  a 
hundred  years  old  at  least.  Her  sisters  are  quite 
smart,  especially  Diana  Maddinard.  But  as  they 
are  both  married  I  see  no  object  in  making  her 
such  a  Cinderella!" 

"You  may  depend  upon  it,"  said  Hugh  resent- 
fully, "that  if  she  is  a  Cinderella  it's  because  she 
wants  to  be  and  thinks  she  looks  well  in  the  part !" 

He  was  angry  with  Peggy;  her  manner  had 
mortified  him.  She  was  quite  incomprehensible 
to-night,  and  the  black  dress  seemed  to  be  sym- 
bolic of  some  mood  in  her  that  eluded  his  com- 
prehension. 

He  comforted  himself  with  the  reflection  that 
perhaps  she  was  aware  of  the  reason  of  his  visit 
and  that  she  did  not  wish  to  appear  to  him  in  the 
light  of  too  facile  a  quarry.  Only  he  had  thought 


170  THE  REST  HOUSE 

of  her  as  such  a  simple,  unsophisticated  little 
thing,  quite  unable  to  play  a  part  of  any  kind. 

If  Peggy  had  deliberately  set  herself  out  to 
attract  and  draw  this  young  man  to  her  feet,  she 
could  not  have  done  it  more  thoroughly  than  in 
this  foolish  little  attempt  to  repel  and  disgust 
him. 

Her  coldness  had  only  set  a  match  to  the  flame. 
He  was  determined  to  win  her. 

"You  were  a  fool  to  come,  Hugh,"  said  Mrs. 
Gillespie  presently;  "it  was  just  a  case  of  '  "Will 
you  walk  into  my  parlor?"  said  the  spider  to  the 
fly.'  You'll  be  gobbled  up  before  you  know 
where  you  are!" 

"I  liked  the  look  of  the  web,  you  see,"  said 
Hugh. 

"Oh,  well;  then  you  deserve  to  be  gobbled  up. 
Is  there  really  a  lot  of  money?  I've  heard  that 
Charsley  has  pretty  well  run  through  Beatrice's 
fortune." 

"I  don't  know — we  haven't  got  as  far  as  the 
settlements  yet,"  said  Hugh  with  a  grin,  "but  in 
any  case  I've  got  such  heaps  myself  I  don't  really 
want  any  more." 

"How  hopeless  you  are — I  must  leave  you  to 
your  fate,"  said  Mrs.  Gillespie. 

"Oh,  don't  do  that,  please,  Anne — she's  bitten 
my  head  off  twice,"  said  Hugh  with  pretended 
dismay. 

"Perhaps  she  thinks  it's  time  you'd  declared 
yourself,"  she  said  coolly. 

"Oh,  is  that  what  she  means  ?  You  know  better 
than  I  do.  Do  you  think  I'd  better  propose  to  her 
after  dinner?" 


THE  REST  HOUSE  171 

"If  you  want  to  be  the  silliest  young  fool  that 
was  ever  hooked  with  a  pin !"  said  Mrs.  Gillespie 
laughing. 

Hugh  joined  in  the  laugh.  She  had  put  him 
in  a  good  temper  again  and  he  felt  cheered  by  her 
satirical  comments.  And  he  really  loved  Peggy. 
He  was  piqued  by  her  attitude.  Of  course  it  was 
going  to  be  all  right,  else  why  had  he  been  in- 
vited to  come?  Nothing  could  have  been  kinder 
and  warmer  than  the  welcome  offered  by  Sir 
John  and  his  wife.  And  if  the  girl  herself  seemed 
something  more  than  reluctant,  she  was  perhaps 
only  employing  the  usual  feminine  tactics  of  a 
feigned  withdrawal  to  induce  the  enemy  to  ap- 
proach. 

He  looked  at  Peggy.  She  made  him  think 
of  a  flower  in  mourning — if  such  a  fantastic  thing 
could  be  imagined.  And  although  she  was  a  Met- 
calfe,  she  had  an  indefinable  air  of  race.  That 
slim  and  long  throat  of  hers — the  slight  arms 
and  tiny  hands — the  little  head  with  the  close 
dark  silken  hair  arranged  with  such  perfect  sim- 
plicity. Why  did  she  wear  black  to-night? 
Black  was  not  the  wear  for  youth — if  only  for 
his  sake  she  should  have  appeared  in  something 
more  gay!  He  watched  her  covertly.  She  was 
beautiful. 

"I'll  ask  her  to  come  on  Monday,  too.  That'll 
give  you  a  better  opportunity  on  neutral 
ground,"  said  Mrs.  Gillespie,  after  a  pause. 
"Say  'thank  you  nicely,' "  she  added  with  a  smile. 

"Thank  you  nicely,"  repeated  Hugh,  in  a 
parrot-like  tone;  but  a  light  leaped  into  his  eyes 
and  he  looked  at  her  gratefully.  "It's  topping 


172  THE  REST  HOUSE 

of  you  to  do  that,  you  know — I  mean  I'm  most 
awfully  grateful!" 

"I  wonder  if  it's  really  kind  to  give  babies 
what  they  cry  for?"  she  said.  "I'm  not  sure  that 
a  good  smack  isn't  better  for  them!" 

But  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner  she 
sought  her  opportunity  of  going  up  and  speaking 
to  Peggy. 

She  had  hardly  spoken  to  her  in  her  life;  the 
youngest  Miss  Metcalfe  had  seemed  to  her  so 
shy  and  retiring — so  different  from  her  worldly 
sisters — that  she  had  not  troubled  about  her. 
Still,  she  felt  there  must  be  something  attractive 
about  a  girl  whom  Hugh  could  allow  himself  to 
fall  seriously  in  love  with.  She  knew  he  had 
been  the  despair  of  mothers  with  even  beautiful 
marriageable  daughters.  What  had  made  him 
fix  his  thoughts  so  resolutely  upon  little  Peggy 
Metcalfe? 

"I  want  you  to  come  on  Monday,  too,"  she 
said  in  her  odd,  gruff  little  voice.  "Peter  and 
Hugh  are  both  coming  to  luncheon." 

Peggy  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  refuse.  But 
that  would  have  been  an  unheard-of  indepen- 
dence of  action  impossible  hereafter  to  excuse  or 
explain.  All  invitations  were  referred  to  Lady 
Metcalfe.  She  glanced  toward  her  mother. 

"I  must  ask  mother,"  she  said,  smiling.  "She 
may  not  like  me  to  be  away — there  are  so  many 
people  staying  here." 

"Oh,  I'll  make  it  all  right  with  your  mother," 
said  Mrs.  Gillespie;  "you  mustn't  disappoint  me. 
Why  are  you  wearing  that  doleful  dress  to-night, 
my  child?" 


THE  REST  HOUSE  173 

Peggy  crimsoned.  She  felt  as  if  those  experi- 
enced eyes  had  penetrated  into  her  motive,  which 
became  all  at  once  trivial  and  absurd. 

Seeing  that  her  question  produced  only  silence 
and  confusion  and  that  no  answer  appeared  to  be 
forthcoming,  Mrs.  Gillespie  moved  away  from 
Peggy  and  went  up  to  Lady  Metcalfe,  repeating 
the  invitation. 

"I  want  Peggy  to  come  with  Peter  and  Hugh 
on  Monday.  She  wants  to  know  if  you'll  let 
her." 

It  was  not  a  very  exact  statement  of  the  case, 
and  perhaps  Lady  Metcalfe  divined  this. 

"Hugh  wishes  it  particularly,"  said  Mrs.  Gil- 
lespie in  a  hollow  undertone. 

Their  eyes  met.    Lady  Metcalfe  said : 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  let  her  go." 

It  was  evident  that  Hugh  was  in  earnest,  un- 
deterred by  the  black  dress,  the  symptoms  of 
withdrawal  that  had  been  all  too  visible  during 
dinner  to  that  watchful  maternal  eye.  These  had 
but  given  the  spur  to  the  young  man's  resolves. 
But  Peggy?  There  had  been  something  so  very 
unreasonable  about  Peggy's  conduct  to-night! 
She  glanced  at  her  daughter. 

"Oh,  that'll  be  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Gillespie, 
with  a  dreadful  frankness  that  almost  pierced  the 
complacency  of  Lady  Metcalfe;  "she  is  only  jib- 
bing, you  know.  You  leave  her  to  Hugh!" 

Lady  Metcalfe  thought  the  metaphor  a  trifle 
crude.  But  she  said/ almost  as  if  she  had  been 
surprised  into  a  corresponding  frankness: 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  understand  Peggy. 
She's  always  been  troublesome.  She  has  always 


174  THE  REST  HOUSE 

given  me  more  trouble  than  all  the  others  put 
together." 

"She  was  bound  to  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Gil- 
lespie,  bestowing  a  perfunctory  glance  full  of 
admiration  upon  Peggy.  "But  she's  perfectly 
lovely,  and  if  she  won't  have  Hugh  she'll  get 
some  one  much  better!" 

"Oh,  we've  never  considered  her  at  all  pretty," 
said  Lady  Metcalfe,  repudiating  the  compli- 
ment; "she  isn't  at  all  like  her  sisters.  Although 
I  am  their  mother,  I  can  not  help  seeing  that 
Diana  and  Beatrice  are  beautiful  women." 

No — Peggy  was  not  of  the  type  that  was  ad- 
mired in  the  family.  She  was  the  only  dark 
and  colorless  one.  There  was  something  strange 
about  her,  as  if  she  did  not  realize  her  position. 
Lady  Metcalfe  felt  a  kind  of  jealous  dislike  at 
hearing  her  youngest  daughter  immoderately 
praised. 

Mrs.  Gillespie  was  made  to  feel  that  she  had 
said  the  wrong  thing. 

"Oh,  well,  of  course  she's  not  a  bit  like  her 
sisters,"  she  remarked  carelessly. 


CHAPTER  XII 

PEGGY  had  rather  dreaded  the  advent  of  Easter 
Sunday,  but  the  coming  of  Hugh  Quentin 
and  the  little  struggle  with  her  mother  had  driven 
the  dread  from  her  mind.  It  was  one  of  those 
days  when  Lady  Metcalfe  drove  down  to  the 
eight  o'clock  service  at  Mildon  Church  and  ex- 
pected Peggy  to  accompany  her.  On  Christmas 
Day  she  and  her  daughter  had  both  been  suffer- 
ing from  colds,  so  nothing  had  been  said,  and 
Peggy  had  not  been  asked  to  attend  such  a 
service  since  her  experience  at  the  Rest  House 
early  in  December. 

She  had  a  vague  hope  that  her  mother  might 
forget  to  say  anything  to  her,  for  her  mind  was 
evidently  deeply  occupied  with  that  determina- 
tion to  arrange  a  marriage  between  herself  and 
Hugh  Quentin;  there  could  be  no  doubt  at  all 
about  that  after  the  little  scene  that  had  taken 
place  over  the  pink  dress.  It  might  be  that  in  the 
midst  of  his  preoccupation  Lady  Metcalfe 
might  forget  to  express  her  desire  that  Peggy 
should  accompany  her  on  the  following  morning. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Sturgess  recalled  it  to  her  mind, 
for  he  made  some  excuse  for  leaving  early  with 
his  wife.  "To-morrow's  an  early  day  with  us, 
you  know,  Lady  Metcalfe.  We  must  turn  in  in 
good  time,"  he  had  said. 

When  every  one  had  gone  and  the  men  had 
all  departed  to  the  smoking-room,  Peggy  went 
up  to  her  mother  to  kiss  her  and  say  good-night. 

"I  shall  expect  you  to  be  ready  at  a  quarter 
175 


176  THE  REST  HOUSE 

to  eight  to-morrow,  Peggy,"  said  her  mother. 
"I  have  ordered  the  motor.  Mind  you  are  down 
in  good  time." 

She  did  not  even  wait  for  a  reply.  For  the 
last  five  years,  ever  since  Peggy's  confirmation, 
she  had  made  precisely  the  same  little  speech  to 
her  on  the  eve  of  the  most  of  the  great  Feasts  of 
the  Church.  It  never  occurred  to  her  now  that 
Peggy  would  offer  any  resistance. 

Peggy  went  up  to  her  room,  and  dismissing 
Valerie  as  soon  as  possible,  sat  down  by  the 
fire.  The  April  night  was  very  chilly  and  she 
threw  a  woollen  wrapper  over  her  nightdress. 
Her  little  feet  were  enclosed  in  warm  slippers. 
She  looked  diminutive  and  childish  with  her  hair 
hanging  all  loosened  about  her  face. 

All  thoughts  of  Hugh  and  the  unpleasant 
little  episode  in  connection  with  the  pink  dress 
had  vanished  utterly  from  her  mind — had  been  in 
a  sense  swept  away  by  this  simple  remark  of  her 
mother's.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  possibly 
accompany  her  to  church.  Yet  what  excuse 
could  she  offer?  Short  of  telling  her  the  whole 
truth,  she  felt  there  was  none  to  be  made. 

In  despair  she  went  to  a  little  locked  drawer 
where  she  kept  the  books  Morford  had  given 
her,  and  took  out  the  "Garden  of  the  Soul." 
Peggy  had  read  and  reread  it  until  she  almost 
knew  it  by  heart.  It  had  taught  her  in  plain 
language  the  duties  and  obligations  of  the  Cath- 
olic. There  were  rules  for  the  examination  of 
conscience,  sets  of  questions  intended  to  help  the 
penitent  to  discover  exactly  where  he  had  sinned, 
prayers  to  be  said  before  and  after  confession. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  177 

The  thought  of  confession  had  never  presented 
to  Peggy  that  obstacle  which  it  does  to  many 
intending  converts.  Perhaps  she  was  too  young 
to  resent  any  form  of  discipline,  for  in  spite  of 
the  luxury  in  which  she  had  always  lived,  Peggy 
had  been  strictly  and  even  severely  brought  up 
by  her  parents.  She  had  been  less  indulged,  per- 
haps, than  the  others,  and  as  a  child  she  had  been 
more  frequently  punished.  It  was  quite  possible 
that  this  training  helped  her  now  when  she  ap- 
proached in  thought  the  sacrament  of  Penance. 
But  even  if  it  had  offered  any  special  hardship 
to  her,  Peggy  would  never  have  permitted  it  to 
become  a  definite  obstacle  in  her  path.  Her 
whole  mind  was  set  in  the  most  single-hearted 
manner  upon  becoming  a  Catholic  as  soon  as 
possible.  She  was  prepared  to  pay  any  price 
that  might  be  demanded  of  her  in  order  to  gain 
that  end.  It  lay  at  the  back  of  all  her  obstinate 
determination  not  to  marry  Hugh. 

Peggy  had  forced  herself  every  night  as  a  kind 
of  preparation  to  examine  her  conscience  with 
the  help  of  this  little  book.  It  was  a  process  that 
seemed  to  throw  a  powerful  searchlight  upon  the 
soul,  disclosing  its  dark  places,  revealing  its  im- 
perfections. She  had  learned  in  this  way  that  she 
habitually  committed  the  same  faults  over  and 
over  again — those  very  imperfections  in  herself 
that  she  so  clearly  realized  and  tried  to  conquer — 
faults  of  wilfulness,  of  obstinacy,  even  of  dis- 
obedience and  rebellion.  She  had  often  felt  that 
it  would  be  a  comfort  when  she  could  receive 
absolution  for  those  faults;  it  would  surely  help 
her  not  to  commit  them  over  and  over  again. 


178  THE  REST  HOUSE 

During  these  last  three  months — indeed,  ever 
since  her  return  from  Lavender — she  had  made 
efforts  to  amend.  She  had  tried  to  put  Morford's 
advice  into  practice,  and  to  make  her  daily  life 
a  preparation  for  the  day  when  she  should  be- 
come a  Catholic.  It  had  not  been  easy,  but  she 
had  not  always  failed.  It  had  helped  her  to  be 
docile  and  gentle;  it  had  checked  her  too  im- 
pulsive speech;  in  many  little  things  that  were 
disagreeable  to  her  she  had  submitted  without 
remonstrance.  But  to-night  she  clearly  saw  that 
she  had  come  to  the  cross-roads.  She  had 
dreaded  and  feared  that  some  such  moment  might 
arise,  forcing  her  to  disclose  her  ultimate  inten- 
tion before  the  time  was  ripe  for  her  to  take  the 
decisive  step.  And  now  the  moment  seemed  to  be 
approaching  on  swift  wings.  She  could  not  pos- 
sibly accompany  her  mother  to  Mildon  Church 
on  the  following  day.  And  it  would  be  the  more 
remarkable  because  in  former  years  Peggy  had 
always  gone  eagerly.  But  to-night  the  influence 
of  the  Rest  House  was  strong  upon  her;  she 
seemed  to  be  back  in  the  chapel  praying  through 
the  long,  cold  hours.  She  could  hear  herself  say 
again  in  a  breathless  whisper,  "Oh,  I  will  come. 
I  will  come." 

To  all  converts  there  must  come  the  moment  of 
definite  breach  when  the  sharp  conviction  comes 
upon  them  that  they  can  no  longer  receive  com- 
munion in  the  Protestant  Church.  To  the  High 
Churchman  this  may  even  be  a  moment  of  agony, 
a  kind  of  spiritual  farewell,  a  severance  from 
something  beloved  and  sacred.  But  to  others  the 
moment  holds  nothing  of  pain;  the  soul  submit- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  179 

ting  instantly  to  another  and  higher  authority 
only  sees  in  the  severance  part  of  the  task  de- 
manded of  it,  and  can  no  longer  accept  anything 
else,  anything  less  than  the  Truth  it  has  beheld. 
Peggy  felt  that  fierce  recoil  which  some  people 
do.  She  was  instinctively  preparing  for  her  First 
Communion  in  the  Catholic  Church,  a  divine 
event  for  which  she  was  waiting  with  eager  im- 
patience amid  a  sense  of  acute  spiritual  starva- 
tion. Her  nostalgia  had  slowly  grown  during 
these  past  months  until  it  had  become  a  torment ; 
to-night  she  felt  that  she  must  cry  aloud  her 
suffering  for  all  the  world  to  hear. 

She  felt  now  that  something  had  been  de- 
manded of  her  which  it  was  no  longer  in  her 
power  to  give.  She  could  not  conform  to  the 
Protestant  Church.  She  had  known  the  truth 
in  one  swift  hour  of  miraculous  illumination,  and 
she  could  not  look  back. 

But  to  refuse  and  rebel  required  courage. 
Lady  Metcalfe  would  not  be  slow  to  discern  the 
motive  for  this  reluctance,  to  trace  it  back  with 
unerring  finger  to  that  night  spent  at  the  Rest 
House. 

Clearly  Peggy  had  come  to  the  cross-roads. 
She  felt  that  rather  than  comply  she  would  face 
any  disgrace — any  punishment.  If  need  be,  she 
would  speak  out. 

She  got  into  bed  at  last,  but  she  could  not 
sleep,  and  sometimes  during  the  night  she 
switched  on  the  electric  light  and  read  that  little, 
worn  book  of  devotion  and  prayer.  It  seemed  to 
give  her  courage  and  to  help  her. 

When  Valerie  came  to  call  her,  she  told  her 


180  THE  REST  HOUSE 

that  she  had  had  a  bad  night;  her  head  was 
aching;  she  did  not  feel  well.  She  could  not  get 
up;  she  would  have  her  breakfast  in  bed.  The 
excuses  were  perfectly  true,  and  yet  she  felt  as 
she  made  them  that  they  were  the  excuses  of  a 
coward. 

At  any  other  time  Lady  Metcalfe  would  cer- 
tainly have  accepted  them  with  perhaps  only  a 
word  of  reproof  at  the  lack  of  effort  thus  demon- 
strated. But  she  was  on  the  alert  just  then  for 
any  possible  key  to  the  solution  of  the  problem. 
She  came  hurrying  upstairs  on  the  receipt  of  her 
daughter's  message  and  breathlessly  entered 
Peggy's  room. 

"My  dear  Peggy,  why  aren't  you  ready? 
What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"I  have  had  a  bad  night;  my  head  aches,"  said 
Peggy,  flushing  nervously. 

She  hoped  that  perhaps  there  would  not  be 
time  for  her  mother  to  make  more  searching  in- 
quiries. 

But  Lady  Metcalfe's  eye  had  fallen  upon  the 
little  brown  book  that  lay  on  a  table  by  Peggy's 
bedside. 

"What  is  that  book,  Peggy?"  she  asked,  and 
made  a  step  forward. 

Peggy  had  utterly  forgotten  that  she  had  left 
the  incriminating  volume  on  the  table.  She 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  seize  it,  but  she  was 
too  late — Lady  Metcalfe  had  already  taken  pos- 
session of  it.  She  looked  at  the  .worn  gilt  letter- 
ing of  the  title  and  read  aloud  in  slow  and  awful 
accents,  "The  Garden  of  the  Soul." 

Peggy  was  as  white  as  a  sheet;  she  watched 


THE  REST  HOUSE  181 

her  mother  with  a  kind  of  fascinated  gaze;  her 
limbs  trembled  so  much  that  the  bed-clothes 
stirred. 

Lady  Metcalfe  was  not  content  with  the  title 
only;  she  opened  the  book  and  glanced  at  its 
contents.  "The  Ordinary  of  the  Mass,"  "The 
Canon  of  the  Mass,"  "Devotions  for  Com- 
munion," "Devotions  for  Confession,"  "Exam- 
ination of  Conscience,"  "The  Particular  Ex- 
amen,"  "Benediction  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament" 
— these  were  only  a  few  of  the  headings  that 
caught  her  eye,  but  they  taught  her  that  this  was 
a  book  of  Roman  Catholic  prayer  which  Peggy 
had  most  assuredly  been  reading  and  studying. 
It  offered  a  perfect  explanation  for  this  idle  ex- 
cuse of  a  bad  night  and  a  headache. 

"Where  did  you  get  this  book,  Peggy?"  she 
asked.  She  looked  at  Peggy  curiously,  almost  as 
if  she  had  been  a  stranger. 

"It  was  given  to  me,"  said  Peggy. 

"By  whom?" 

"By  Mr.  Morford." 

"I  thought  as  much,"  said  Lady  Metcalfe; 
"this  man  has  set  himself  deliberately  to  work  to 
corrupt  your  mind.  Is  this  the  reason  why  you 
are  not  ready  to  go  with  me  now — the  real 
reason?" 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Peggy,  in  a  voice  so  faint 
that  it  could  scarcely  be  heard.  "I  am  very 
sorry  .  .  .  it  is  impossible."  Her  courage  gave 
way;  she  began  to  cry. 

"I  can  not  stay  and  talk  to  you  now,  Peggy," 
said  Lady  Metcalfe  as  she  moved,  still  holding 
the  book,  toward  the  door.  "You  had  better  get 


182  THE  REST  HOUSE 

up  and  after  breakfast  I  will  see  you  in  my  room. 
I  shall  be  late  as  it  is."  She  glanced  at  the  clock. 
It  was  terrible  of  Peggy  to  spring  this  mine  upon 
her;  she  had  offered  no  word  of  reluctance  last 
night.  Even  Lady  Metcalfe  was  upset.  She  did 
not  want  to  have  a  disturbance  with  Hugh  in  the 
house,  and  she  did  not  in  the  least  know  how 
to  act. 

It  disturbed  her  especially  as  she  sped  down 
to  church  in  the  motor  to  remember  that  Beatrice 
had  always  held  that  Peggy  had  been  less  influ- 
enced by  the  religion  itself  than  by  the  man  who 
had  so  unwisely  taught  her  about  it.  She  had 
believed  that  the  whole  episode  was  past  and  for- 
gotten, yet  here  it  was  cropping  up  again,  just  at 
a  moment,  too,  when  it  threatened  to  interfere 
with  all  their  plans.  Peggy  had  been  flagrantly 
disobedient  and  deceitful,  had  been  filling  her 
mind  with  dangerous  Roman  Catholic  literature, 
which  had  evidently  perverted  her  moral  sense 
and  induced  her  to  disobey  and  thwart  her 
parents.  Did  this  lie,  too,  at  the  bottom  of  her 
strange  conduct  toward  Hugh?  Was  the  influ- 
ence still  so  strong  that  it  would  prevent  Peggy 
from  marrying  a  Protestant  husband? 


IT  WAS  Hugh  Quentin's  presence  at  Mildon 
that  prevented  matters  from  coming  to  a 
crisis.  Lady  Metcalfe  hoped  that  Peggy  would, 
upon  reflection,  repent  of  the  enormity  of  her 
conduct,  and  make  tardy  amends  by  accepting 
Hugh  when  he  invited  her  to  be  his  wife. 

She  did  not  want  to  have  a  scene  with  Peggy ; 
there  would  be  tears  on  the  girl's  part — and 
Peggy  looked  singularly  plain  when  she  had  been 
crying.  To  have  family  dissensions  when  the 
house  was  full  of  guests  might  seriously  diminish 
the  popularity  of  Mildon  as  a  week-end  resort. 
Lady  Metcalfe  was  restored  to  her  usual  com- 
placency by  the  time  she  had  partaken  of  her 
coffee  that  morning,  and  when  Peggy  came  down 
to  her  room  and  timidly  approached  her  she  said 
brightly : 

"My  dear  Peggy,  I  am  sure  you  have  come 
to  tell  me  you  are  very  sorry  that  you  displeased 
me  this  morning.  We  won't  say  anything  more 
about  it  and  you  will  know  much  better  next 
time.  I  think  you'd  better  go  back  to  your  room, 
because  your  eyes  are  still  very  red  and  any  one 
can  see  that  you've  been  crying.  I  hope  you 
will  come  down  looking  sweet  and  cheerful,  as 
you  can  look  when  you  choose,  at  luncheon." 

Thus  admonished,  Peggy  went  upstairs.  So 
nothing  more  was  to  be  said,  but  there  was  a  hint 
in  Lady  Metcalfe's  words  that  any  future  con- 
duct of  the  kind  would  not  so  readily  be  over- 

183 


184  THE  REST  HOUSE 

looked.  The  pressure  was  being  applied  rather 
sharply  now.  Peggy  was  to  make  amends,  and 
how?  If  she  consented  to  marry  Hugh  all  would 
be  forgiven  and  forgotten !  But  to  marry  Hugh 
would  put  an  end  for  ever  to  her  cherished  dream 
of  becoming  a  Catholic. 

When  she  said  good-night  to  her  mother  that 
night  Lady  Metcalfe  put  her  arms  round  her 
neck  and  kissed  her  affectionately. 

"These  are  very  important  days  for  you,  my 
dear  child,"  she  said  in  her  smooth  way,  "and 
something  tells  me  that  perhaps  to-morrow  will 
be  the  most  important  one  of  all.  I  know  my 
Peggy  will  respond." 

She  looked  into  Peggy's  dark  eyes,  but  there 
was  little  response  in  their  somber  depths.  She 
could  almost  have  fancied  that  the  girl  shrank 
ever  so  slightly  away  from  her,  but  of  course  that 
was  quite  impossible.  It  was  a  critical  time,  of 
course — many  girls  resented  the  thought  of  giv- 
ing up  their  freedom  and  independence. 

Peggy  looked  at  her  mother  almost  in  alarm. 
There  was  something  so  implacable,  so  deter- 
mined about  her.  One  might  as  well  try  to  make 
a  permanent  impression  upon  a  feather  bed- 
that  soft  resistance  of  hers  was  on  the  face  of  it 
so  unassailable.  She  had  been  forgiven  her  con- 
duct of  the  morning,  but  she  was  to  show  re- 
pentance in  a  practical  way;  she  was  to  yield  in 
this  other  and  more  important  affair. 

"I  am  your  mother,"  continued  Lady  Met- 
calfe softly;  "I  know  what  is  best  for  you.  I 
only  desire  your  happiness.  I  wish  to  see  you 
as  happy  as  your  sisters,  with  the  same  kind  of 


THE  REST  HOUSE  185 

happiness.  You  have  seen  both  Diana  and  Bea- 
trice in  their  beautiful  homes.  A  happy  mar- 
riage— that's  the  best  fate  for  a  girl." 

"Not  unless — you  are  in  love,"  faltered  Peggy, 
trembling  like  a  leaf. 

"My  dear  child,  if  you  can  honor  your  husband 
there  need  be  no  silly  romance.    The  great  thing 
is  to  marry  a  good  man  of  your  own  world — 
some  one  who  can  give  you  the  things  to  which 
you  are  accustomed." 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  Encouraged  by 
Peggy's  silence,  Lady  Metcalfe  continued: 

"A  young  girl  can  not  always  choose  wisely  for 
herself — especially  a  girl  with  so  little  experience 
of  the  world  as  yourself.  But  you  must  trust 
your  parents,  Peggy,  to  choose  wisely  for 
you." 

Was  there  really  something  at  the  back  of  all 
Peggy's  resistance?  It  was  only  kind  to  let  her 
see  quite  clearly  how  futile  that  resistance  would 
be. 

"Your  father  has  made  up  his  mind  to  give 
you  exactly  what  he  gave  your  sisters  if  you  make 
a  marriage  of  which  he  can  thoroughly  approve." 

She  kissed  Peggy's  forehead. 

"That's  all  I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  my  dear. 
Good-night." 

Peggy,  still  silent,  went  out  of  the  room.  She 
had  the  curious  physical  sensation  that  heavy, 
crushing  things  had  passed  over  her  body,  numb- 
ing and  paralyzing  it.  It  seemed  to  her  almost 
possible  then  that  she  would  obey,  and  promise 
to  marry  Hugh  if  he  should  ask  her  to  be  his 
wife. 


186  THE  REST  HOUSE 

When  she  awoke  the  next  morning  it  was  with 
the  feeling  that  something  dreadful  was  going 
to  happen.  She  could  not  at  first  remember  what 
it  was,  but  in  a  flash  her  mother's  conversation 
came  back  to  her  mind.  Lady  Metcalfe  had  said 
that  this  would  be  a  very  important  day  for 
Peggy,  and  that  she  hoped  she  would  respond. 
There  was  that  luncheon  party  at  Mrs.  Gillespie's 
to  be  faced.  The  very  thought  of  it  filled  her 
with  fear  and  apprehension.  It  seemed  then  that 
her  daily  life,  which  she  had  so  passionately 
wished  to  make  into  a  preparation  for  her  recep- 
tion, as  Morford  had  advised,  was  to  be  filled  with 
fierce  storms,  agonizing  rebellions  against  au- 
thority. 

She  thought  of  Beatrice — Beatrice,  who  had 
meekly  obeyed  and  submitted.  The  fear  that  she 
would  be  compelled  to  imitate  her  sister  dimin- 
ished the  courage  she  had  hitherto  felt.  She 
longed  for  advice.  If  she  could  only  have  seen 
Morford  and  asked  him  what  she  ought  to  do! 
Although  he  was  harsh  and  stern,  he  seemed  to 
see  always  quite  clearly  what  was  right  and  what 
was  wrong.  She  could  rely  upon  him  to  tell  her 
the  truth  about  her  duty.  He  had  authority,  but 
not  of  a  personal  individual  kind ;  in  this  respect 
his  power  was  derivative,  was  based,  as  she  was 
dimly  aware,  upon  the  teachings  of  his  Faith.  It 
was  this  fact  that  made  his  words  seem  of  such 
value. 

Peggy  did  not  see  Hugh  that  day  until  it  was 
time  to  start  for  the  Gillespies'.  It  was  a  fine 
day  with  bright  sunshine  and  a  glow  of  real 


THE  REST  HOUSE  187 

spring  warmth  was  in  the  air.  In  obedience  to 
her  mother,  Peggy  had  put  on  a  perfectly  new 
white  cloth  coat  and  skirt  and  a  little  blue  straw 
hat  that  was  very  becoming  to  her.  From  the 
crown  of  her  hat  to  the  tips  of  her  little  white 
shoes  Peggy  Metcalfe  looked  a  very  dainty  per- 
son indeed.  Lady  Metcalfe  kissed  her  approv- 
ingly, and  Hugh,  standing  there  in  the  hall, 
watched  the  embrace.  He  thought  that  she 
looked  to-day  wonderfully  like  Deirdre  O'Mara 
in  one  of  her  ingenue  parts.  Yet  her  face  pos- 
sessed, too,  something  of  the  spiritual  that  had 
never  been  in  Deirdre's. 

"Where's  Peter?"  said  Peggy. 

"He's  out  there,  looking  at  the  car.  He's 
going  to  drive,  you  know." 

Peggy  was  a  little  dismayed  at  hearing  this; 
she  wondered  whose  suggestion  it  had  been.  The 
motor  was  a  closed  one  and  she  would  have  to 
sit  inside.  What  if  Hugh  insisted  upon  keeping 
her  company  all  through  that  long  drive?  She 
went  out  of  the  front  door  and  ran  down  the 
steps  to  where  Peter  was  standing. 

She  slipped  her  arm  in  his.  "Peter,"  she  said 
in  an  imploring  whisper. 

"Well,  what  is  it,  Pegs?" 

"Make  Sir  Hugh  sit  with  you,"  she  whispered. 
''I  don't  want  him  to  come  with  me.  Oh,  why 
did  you  say  you'd  drive?" 

"The  mater  said  I  must.  Jones  has  got  a 
cold." 

"Yes,  but  the  other  one  could  have  come." 
Her  cheeks  were  on  fire  with  indignation. 

Sir  Hugh  came  out  and  stood  on  the  door- 


188  THE  REST  HOUSE 

step,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  looked  very 
cheerful  and  assured,  as  if  things  were  going  well 
with  him.  He  smiled  and  helped  Peggy  into  the 
car  in  a  possessive  way  that  made  her  shrink  from 
his  touch.  Her  nerves  were  on  edge. 

Peter  said  coolly: 

"I  expect  you'd  rather  sit  outside  on  such  a 
fine  day,  wouldn't  you,  Hugh?" 

Sir  Hugh  complied,  nevertheless  he  gave 
Peggy  a  swift  glance.  Lady  Metcalfe,  who 
joined  them  now,  saw  that  it  was  too  late  to  alter 
things.  She  attributed  the  blame  to  Peter.  How 
tactless  he  was,  how  careless  of  his  sister's  inter- 
ests. Young  men  were  always  selfish. 

"You're  not  afraid  of  the  cold?"  said  Peter. 

"No ;  but  your  sister — it's  dull  for  her  alone." 
He  turned  his  head  and  looked  through  the  win- 
dow at  Peggy  sitting  huddled  up  in  a  corner  with 
a  great  fur  rug  over  her  knees  for  all  the  world 
as  if  she  were  cold. 

"She's  got  a  headache — she'd  rather  be  alone," 
said  Peter,  carelessly.  He  could  not  quite  make 
out  Peggy's  attitude  to  Hugh.  His  father  had 
spoken  to  him  yesterday  as  if  the  engagement 
were  practically  arranged;  he  wondered  why 
Peggy  had  said  nothing  about  it  to  him. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  said  Hugh. 

The  car  went  swiftly  over  the  dry  and  hard 
roads.  Mildon  Place  was  only  five  miles  away, 
and  they  very  soon  found  themselves  before  the 
high  iron  gates  of  the  nearest  lodge. 

Peggy  had  looked  almost  mechanically  at  the 
two  heads  in  front  of  her,  the  one  fair  and  the 
other  dark.  Then  she  began  to  criticize  Hugh 


THE  REST  HOUSE  189 

Quentin.  His  head  was  a  trifle  too  narrow,  his 
neck  a  shade  too  thick.  She  had  never  noticed 
this  peculiarity  before;  perhaps  in  comparing  it 
to  Peter's  perfect  proportions  the  defect  was 
more  noticeable.  She  wondered  if  she  could  have 
learned  to  love  him  if  she  had  not  been  search- 
ing for  a  spiritual  ideal.  He  could  not  help  her 
in  the  quest,  and  if  she  married  him  it  meant  that 
she  would  have  to  forego  that  quest.  He  had 
spoken  slightingly  of  Catholics  in  alluding  to 
the  Daltons  in  her  hearing.  She  had  never  been 
in  love,  but  she  felt  that  the  emotion  must  cer- 
tainly hold  a  delicate  and  mysterious  delight  that 
was  utterly  absent  from  any  feeling  she  had  for 
Hugh.  She  had  liked  him  well  enough  as  Peter's 
friend,  but  now  that  his  intentions  were  mani- 
fested she  felt  that  she  no  longer  liked  him  at  all. 

Mrs.  Gillespie  greeted  her  with  a  little  smile, 
disdainful,  experienced. 

"So  you've  really  come,  Peggy?  I  hardly  ex- 
pected you.  I  wasn't  a  bit  sure  what  you  meant 
to  do  on  Saturday  night,"  she  said  in  her  hollow 
voice. 

She  addressed  Peggy  by  her  name  in  the  infor- 
mal manner  with  which  one  addresses  a  child. 

Peggy  was  very  silent.  Mrs.  Gillespie  made 
her  feel  shy  and  awkward,  like  a  school-girl. 

"Hugh  must  be  in  the  seventh  heaven,"  she 
added  when  they  were  alone  together  in  the 
drawing-room  before  luncheon  was  announced. 

She  seemed  to  regard  the  fact  of  Peggy's  ap- 
pearance to-day  in  the  light  of  a  tacit  capitula- 
tion. And  she  was  thinking  all  the  time  how 
charming  Peggy  was  looking.  That  blue  hat 


190  THE  REST  HOUSE 

became  her  vastly,  as  they  would  have  said  in 
the  eighteenth  century.  And  of  course  that 
silence,  that  shyness,  would  soon  wear  off.  Only 
it  was  strange  of  Hugh  to  fall  in  love  with  any- 
thing so  young  and  ingenuous. 

She  narrowed  her  green  eyes  and  said: 

"Hugh's  a  great  dear.  I've  known  him  ever 
since  I  came  to  England.  I'm  sure  he'll  make 
you  happy.  If  Blossom  were  grown  up  there's 
no  one  I'd  sooner  give  her  to." 

Peggy  resisted  an  impulse  to  shiver  under  the 
application  of  this  particular  form  of  torture, 
that  seemed  to  shame  rather  than  to  hurt  her. 

"Never  mind  if  you  don't  feel  enthusiastic  at 
first.  Hugh  may  not  be  exactly  a  Prince  Charm- 
ing, though  he  would  be  handsome  if  he  hadn't 
got  such  a  long  upper  lip.  But  he's  a  downright 
good  sort.  And  he  hasn't  got  a  mortgaged 
estate  like  Charsley  had,  and  he  isn't  a  foolish, 
idle  boy  like  Maddinard.  You'll  have  done 
better  really  than  either  of  your  sisters." 

Peggy  felt  like  a  mouse  hesitating  on  the  very 
threshold  of  the  trap,  half-hypnotized  by  the 
cheese  within. 

"There — I  won't  tease  you  any  more,"  said 
Mrs.  Gillespie.  "Come  in  to  lunch — there'll  only 
be  ourselves.  I  couldn't  scrape  up  any  one,  but 
it  doesn't  matter.  I  hate  a  crowd." 

When  they  had  all  assembled  in  the  dining- 
room — a  fine  room  with  paneled  walls  hung  with 
splendid  old  family  portraits,  and  with  beautiful 
views  over  the  Park — a  small  child  was  brought 
in  by  her  nurse  and  perched  on  a  highchair  close 
to  her  mother.  Mrs.  Gillespie  stooped  and  be- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  191 

stowed  a  perfunctory  embrace  on  the  mop  of 
golden  curls. 

"Darling  Blossom,"  she  murmured  in  a  cooing 
tone. 

Blossom  was  a  very  dainty  little  creature  of 
four,  with  green  eyes  just  like  her  mother's.  Her 
father  caught  her  up  and  covered  her  face  with 
kisses.  She  resisted  a  little  and  Peggy  heard  her 
say: 

"Don't,  Daddy — you'll  cwush  my  fwock!" 

Peggy  sat  next  to  her  host  with  Hugh  on  her 
other  side.  Peter  was  opposite,  with  Blossom 
for  his  neighbor.  She  stared  at  him  with  great 
interest. 

Peggy  felt  nervous  and  unstrung. 

"Hugh,  you  must  come  and  see  my  new  studio 
after  lunch.  I've  had  it  put  near  the  wood,  be- 
cause I  was  always  being  disturbed  by  people 
when  I  worked  in  the  house,"  said  Mrs.  Gillespie. 
She  was  an  expert  photographer  and  spent  a 
great  deal  of  time  over  this  hobby. 

Peggy  flushed  a  little.  She  knew  perfectly 
well  that  Mrs.  Gillespie  would  contrive  to  send 
her  to  the  studio  with  Hugh ;  the  thought  fright- 
ened her  a  little.  Peter  must  come  with  them— 
he  must,  he  must!  Peter  must  not  desert  her. 
She  answered  her  host  at  random ;  her  mind  was 
full  of  the  evil  hour  that  was  so  fast  approaching. 
She  did  not  dare  look  at  Hugh.  He  was  so 
cheerful  and  confident,  inclined  to  be  a  trifle  pos- 
sessive in  a  good-humored  way,  as  if  he  were 
cheered  by  Mrs.  Gillespie's  support.  Peggy  had 
never  felt  so  acutely  miserable  in  all  her  life  as 
she  did  at  that  luncheon  party. 


192  THE  REST  HOUSE 

The  afternoon  was  fine.  Above  the  dark 
purple  line  of  the  Weald,  touched  faintly  with 
the  bloom  of  spring,  a  motionless  belt  of  cloud 
hung,  pale  and  pearl-tinted.  The  grass  in  the 
Park  was  vividly  green  and  the  tall  elms  showed 
their  first  emerald-colored  leaves.  The  borders 
were  gay  with  the  gold  of  innumerable  daffodils. 
The  air  was  full  of  spring  scents,  and  the  wind 
had  the  cold,  clean  quality  that  it  wins  in  its  pas- 
sage across  the  sea. 

When  they  started  forth  for  their  walk  after 
luncheon  Peggy  found  herself  with  Hugh,  but 
Mrs.  Gillespie  and  Peter  were  following  close 
behind  with  the  dogs.  It  was  only  when  they 
reached  the  studio,  a  gaudy  new  red  brick  build- 
ing with  a  roof  of  red  tiles,  that  Peggy  perceived 
that  the  others  had  suddenly  vanished.  She  was 
alone  with  Hugh  Quentin  and  he  was  holding  the 
door  open,  inviting  her  to  enter. 

The  room  was  a  large  one  and  the  walls  were 
hung  with  specimens  of  Mrs.  Gillespie's  work. 
She  was  extremely  skilful,  and  both  her  portraits 
and  landscapes  were  beautiful.  There  were 
lovely  studies  of  little  Blossom  at  all  stages  of 
her  young  life.  She  made  an  almost  perfect 
model. 

Hugh  went  on  talking  quietly,  admiring  and 
criticizing  the  photographs,  and  Peggy  listened 
in  absolute  silence.  She  felt  like  some  one  in  a 
dream. 

"You  are  looking  tired,"  said  Hugh  at  last; 
"hadn't  you  better  sit  down?  I  suppose  the 
others  will  join  us  here  presently." 

He  touched  Peggy's  arm  as  if  he  wished  to 


THE  REST  HOUSE  193 

lead  her  to  a  seat,  but  she  shrank  away  from 
him  and  said  in  a  hoarse  voice: 

"Please — I  would  rather  stand!" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  and  then  he  said 
suddenly: 

"Peggy — I  love  you — I  want  you  to  marry 
me."  He  caught  her  two  hands  in  his  in  a  firm 
grip  that  made  flesh  and  spirit  alike  rebel  at  the 
capture;  his  face,  pale  and  emotional,  was  bend- 
ing slightly  toward  her. 

Peggy  wrenched  herself  free. 

"No — no — it's  impossible.  Please  let  me  go- 
Sir  Hugh,  I  can't  marry  you!" 

But  his  hands  closed  on  hers  again  and  held 
them  as  in  a  vise. 

"Peggy,  your  parents  both  wish  it.  And  I 
love  you — I  promise  to  make  you  happy — to 
care  for  you  always." 

His  voice  softened;  he  dropped  her  hands. 
Peggy  stood  there  trembling  like  a  lily. 

"I  can't  marry  you,"  she  said.  She  was  on  the 
verge  of  tears. 

Had  he  been  cheated — duped?  There  was 
more  in  this  determined  refusal  than  could  be 
attributed  to  mere  coyness.  Yet  Lady  Metcalfe 
had  spoken  with  perfect  confidence  on  the  sub- 
ject of  her  daughter's  decision. 

But  Hugh's  mind  traveled  swiftly  back  to  the 
Hunt  Ball. 

"There  is  some  one  else?"  he  demanded. 

Peggy  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  indeed,  there  is 
no  one." 

"Are  you  sure  it  is  not  that  man  Morford?" 
said  Hugh. 


194  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Peggy's  blanched  face  turned  to  a  lovely  crim- 
son. She  tried  to  turn  it  away.  "There  is  no 
one,"  she  said  again. 

All  Hugh's  ancient  jealousy  was  aroused. 

"Why  did  you  let  me  come?"  he  said  angrily. 
"I  was  assured — your  father  and  mother  both 
assured  me.  I  had  my  own  misgivings,  it  is  true. 
But  you  must  have  said  something  to  make  them 
think  that  you  would  not  utterly  refuse." 

"I  told  my  mother  I  could  not  marry  you," 
said  Peggy  in  a  low  tone. 

But  he  seemed  to  be  paying  no  attention  to  her 
words. 

"It  is  useless  of  you  to  think  of  Morford,"  said 
Hugh.  "You  will  never  be  allowed  to  marry 
him.  But  you  will  never  get  me  to  believe  that 
he  did  not  make  love  to  you  at  the  Hunt  Ball 
last  winter.  I  am  not  blind,  and  I  saw  the  way 
he  looked  at  you!" 

"The  way  he  looked  at  me?"  repeated  Peggy, 
amazed  at  his  words. 

"Yes — as  no  man  looks  at  a  girl  unless  he  is 
in  love  with  her."  Hugh  was  almost  beside  him- 
self with  rage  and  disappointment.  "You  must 
surely  know  this  as  well  as  I  do.  You  did  not 
cry  then!"  he  added,  as  Peggy's  tears  began  to 
flow. 

"It  isn't  true,"  she  sobbed;  "it  isn't  true.  He 
has  never  said  a  word  of  that  kind  to  me.  He 
has  only  seen  me  twice.  There  is  no  one — no  one 
whom  I  care  for  at  all." 

"I  still  can  not  understand  why  you  let  me 
come  to  Mildon.  It  was  done  with  your  consent 
and  you  can  not  have  been  in  ignorance  of  my 


THE  REST  HOUSE  195 

hopes  in  the  matter.  Still  less  do  I  understand 
why  you  came  here  to-day!"  His  voice  was 
fiercely  reproachful. 

Peggy  sank  down  on  the  seat  which  she  had 
at  first  refused  and  began  to  cry.  Hugh  was 
dismayed  at  the  violent  outburst  of  tears.  He 
was  angry  with  himself  now  and  he  tried  awk- 
wardly to  comfort  her. 

He  knelt  down  by  her  side. 

"Peggy — dearest — don't  cry — I  know  I  have 
been  a  brute,  but  I've  been  horribly  jealous  of 
Morford.  Forgive  me — let's  be  friends  at  least. 
We  used  to  be  friends  once — I  always  thought 
you  liked  me,  at  any  rate." 

Peggy's  gratitude  was  always  quickly  aroused. 

"Oh,  I  did  like  you — I  do  like  you,"  she  assured 
him  almost  with  eagerness.  "It's  only  that  I 
don't  love  you — that  I  can't  marry  you.  And 
they'll  be  so  angry  with  me  at  home." 

Her  white  face  showed  terror  now — almost  the 
terror  of  a  child. 

"They  always  said  I  wasn't  like  Diana  and 
Beatrice!" 

"No  more  you  are,"  said  Hugh  cheerily;  "you 
are  far  more  beautiful!"  He  took  her  hand 
gently  now  in  his  and  stroked  it,  and  this  time 
Peggy  did  not  shrink  from  his  touch.  This 
change  of  mood  in  her  to  one  of  gentleness  gave 
him  an  odd  renewal  of  hope  even  at  the  moment 
when  things  were  going  worst  with  him.  He 
sat  beside  her  still  holding  her  hand  while  Peggy 
with  her  free  hand  wiped  her  eyes  and  began  to 
think  she  had  behaved  very  foolishly  indeed. 
Hugh  had  not  meant  to  alarm  her  and  his  angry 


196  THE  REST  HOUSE 

words  were  the  outcome  of  the  jealousy  he  had 
felt  for  Morford.  There  was,  indeed,  one  mo- 
ment when  Peggy  almost  told  him  the  truth 
about  Morford,  and  how  it  was  his  religion  that 
attracted  her  and  not  himself.  But  she  felt  per- 
haps it  would  be  wiser  not  to  touch  again  upon 
that  rather  thorny  topic. 

Had  any  one  looked  in  suddenly  upon  them 
they  might  have  been  pardoned  for  imagining 
that  Hugh's  suit  had  been  successful.  He  was 
still  rubbing  Peggy's  cold  little  hand,  caressing 
it  gently,  and  the  little  action  comforted  them 
both.  He  was  certainly  dearer  to  Peggy  then  than 
he  had  ever  been  before.  She  liked  him  when  he 
treated  her  as  Peter  might  have  done — like  a  big, 
strong,  elder  brother,  in  fact  it  was  the  lover  in 
Hugh  that  repelled  her. 

"I'll  make  it  all  right  with  your  mother, 
Peggy,"  he  said.  "Why,  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for 
the  world — you  poor  little  trembling  thing." 

Peggy  was  soon  soothed  into  composure.  She 
rose  at  last,  straightened  her  hat  in  front  of  the 
glass  and  dabbed  at  her  eyes  with  her  already 
wet  handkerchief.  The  tip  of  her  nose  was 
faintly  reddened. 

"How  horrible  I  look,"  she  said,  smiling  at  this 
wan  presentment. 

"You  look  simply  adorable,"  said  Hugh.  He 
stood  there  by  her  side,  looking  at  her  mirrored 
face. 

She  moved  toward  the  door.  Hugh  followed 
her  and  they  went  back  down  the  path  toward 
the  house.  There  was  no  one  in  sight.  In  spite 
of  all  that  had  passed  between  them  they  were 


THE  REST  HOUSE  197 

better  friends  now  than  when  they  started. 
There  was  a  simple  understanding  between  them. 
And  Hugh  was  by  no  means  without  hope.  He 
believed  Peggy's  word  when  she  assured  him  that 
there  was  no  one  else. 

"If  I  can  ever  help  you  in  any  way  you  must 
write  to  me,"  said  Hugh.  "And  oh,  Peggy,  if 
you  should  ever  change  your  mind." 

As  they  approached  the  house  they  could  see 
Mrs.  Gillespie  and  Peter  standing  on  the  terrace 
and  evidently  waiting  for  their  return. 

"Well,  Peggy!  Well,  Hugh!"  she  called,  in 
her  hollow  little  voice. 

She  turned  to  Peter  and  said : 

"Don't  you  long  to  know  what's  happened?" 

She  had  been  talking  to  him  about  his  sister, 
and  had  half  converted  him  to  her  point  of  view. 

"You  must  use  your  influence  with  her. 
People  say  you're  awfully  devoted  to  each  other. 
Don't  let  her  make  a  silly  mistake  now.  She's 
just  at  the  age  when  she  wants  what  she  can't 
have." 

Peter  looked  at  her  curiously.  Did  Peggy 
know  best  what  was  for  her  own  happiness  ?  Did 
any  of  us  know?  Were  the  ideals  of  youth  illu- 
sionary,  and  the  ideals  of  age  the  only  solid  ones 
that  made  for  security?  Custom,  he  knew,  wears 
down  the  finest,  freest  spirit.  His  own  dreams 
had  sensibly  diminished  after  three  months  of  the 
office  stool. 

"We  all  ought  to  be  left  to  choose  for  our- 
selves," he  said  half  sullenly,  for  he  could  not 
bear  to  think  his  point  of  view  had  changed  even 
a  little. 


198  THE  REST  HOUSE 

"Ah,  I  used  to  think  that,  too,"  said  Mrs. 
Gillespie,  "but  now  I  feel  I  know  ever  so  much 
better  than  Blossom  when  she  cries  for  cake  and 
chocolate.  And  if  I  whip  her  she  doesn't  like 
it — though  I  know  it's  good  for  her.  Aren't  we 
all  just  children?  Crying  for  things  we  can't 
have — crying  because  we  get  hurt?" 

Then  Hugh  and  Peggy  came  up  to  them. 
Both  looked  very  serious,  but  quite  calm.  It 
was  impossible  to  read  anything  from  their 
faces.  But  just  before  he  was  going  away  Hugh 
managed  to  say  to  Mrs.  Gillespie: 

"It's  no  go,  Anne.  She  won't  have  me."  He 
winced  as  he  spoke  and  she  saw  that  the  hurt 
had  gone  deep.  She  felt  that  she  would  like  to 
put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  say  all  kinds  of 
comforting  things  to  him  just  as  if  he  had  been 
Blossom.  For  he,  too,  was  crying  for  the  things 
that  were  out  of  his  reach. 

"Oh,  poor  Hughie,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LADY  METCALFE  was  not  long  left  in  ignorance 
as  to  the  result  of  the  visit  to  Mildon  Place, 
for  Hugh  made  some  inadequate  excuse  for  cut- 
ting short  his  stay  and  announced  his  intention  of 
leaving  for  town  early  on  the  following  day. 

Although  she  had  little  opportunity  of  saying 
anything  to  Peggy  before  the  departure  of  her 
guests,  she  was  extremely  angry  with  her.  Why 
was  her  youngest  child  so  different  from  all  the 
others?  Again  and  again  she  told  herself  that 
there  was  something  strange  and  unusual  about 
Peggy.  Something,  too,  that  was  elusive  and  un- 
touchable. Lady  Metcalfe  was  a  very  material- 
istic person,  and  she  was  hardly  to  be  blamed  for 
this,  for  she  had  spent  all  her  life  in  surround- 
ings where  material  comfort  was  the  principal 
object  of  life;  she  had  lived  in  a  money-making 
atmosphere,  and  though  she  went  to  church 
nearly  every  Sunday  and  insisted  also  that  her 
household  should  always  attend  at  least  one 
service  on  that  day,  the  concerns  of  the  soul 
scarcely  touched  her  at  all.  It  was  a  subject 
she  regarded  with  a  respectful  ignorance,  and 
though  she  certainly  did  give  it  a  perfunctory 
glance,  as  it  were,  on  Sundays,  she  thought  of  it 
as  having  as  little  as  possible  to  do  with  the  pres- 
ent world.  The  soul  was  doubtless  immortal 
and  its  concern  was,  therefore,  chiefly  with 
eternity.  Lady  Metcalfe  believed  also  with  per- 

199 


200  THE  REST  HOUSE 

feet  complacency  that  when  she  died  her  soul 
would  go  to  heaven ;  she  would  have  been  shocked 
if  any  one  had  suggested  any  doubt  of  this.  But 
she  had,  nevertheless,  discerned  in  Peggy  an  am- 
biguous quality  as  of  a  soul  striving  for  freedom, 
for  expression.  It  was  in  Peter,  too,  but  less 
obtrusively,  and  Peter  was  beginning  to  conform 
quite  admirably  to  Metcalfe  standards;  in  an- 
other year  or  two  he  would  certainly  become  a 
partner,  when  he  would  learn  to  appreciate  the 
value  and  advantage  of  wealth.  But  Peggy  was 
not  worldly ;  the  things  that  had  pleased  her  sis- 
ters left  her  cold;  one  could  not  charm  her  with 
pretty  frocks  and  smart  functions.  There  was 
an  inherent  simplicity  about  her,  as  there  always 
is  in  those  persons  where  the  soul  dominates  the 
body.  Material  things — delicate  food,  soft  rai- 
ment and  the  like — become,  as  it  were,  physical 
or  temporal  accidents  not  even  always  advan- 
tageous, since  the  possession  of  them  may 
actually  serve  to  hinder  the  soul  on  its  upward 
progress  and  suffocate  the  quest  of  the  spiritual. 
Peggy's  refusal  to  marry  Hugh  came  to  her 
mother's  ears  with  something  of  the  effect  of  a 
violent  physical  shock.  She  was  at  first  unable 
to  believe  that  Peggy  had  dared  thus  openly  to 
rebel.  Although  Beatrice  had  up  to  the  last  mo- 
ment wept  and  threatened  rebellion,  she  had  ac- 
cepted Charsley  very  prettily,  indeed,  when  the 
crucial  moment  came.  Lady  Metcalfe  had  quite 
persuaded  herself  that  this  was  how  Peggy  would 
behave.  During  the  past  three  months,  ever  since 
that  deplorable  episode  in  the  winter,  there 
had  been  a  very  marked  change  in  the  girl,  and 


THE  REST  HOUSE  201 

it  really  looked  as  if  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  There  had  been  some- 
thing very  charming  about  her,  in  her  thought 
for  others,  her  unselfishness,  her  eagerness  to 
please.  Even  Sir  John  had  noticed  it  and  it  had 
made  him  wonder  why  his  Peggy  (his  little 
Peggy,  as  he  called  her  in  moments  of  rare  affec- 
tion) had  not  yet  been  sought  in  marriage,  for 
in  his  eyes  she  had  a  quiet  charm  that  her  sisters 
had  never  possessed.  She  had  contributed 
greatly  of  late  to  the  peace  and  contentment  of 
the  domestic  circle.  Now  an  abrupt  change  had 
fallen  upon  the  scene.  Not  only  had  a  young 
man  of  wealth  and  position  and  excellent  char- 
acter come  forward  with  the  ardent  desire  to 
marry  Peggy,  but  he  had  been  met  with  as  sound 
a  refusal  as  an  eager  lover  could  ever  have  feared 
to  meet  with.  It  was  an  unheard-of  piece  of 
impertinence  on  Peggy's  part,  especially  as  she 
had  actually  encouraged  the  idea  of  his  coming 
to  Mildon.  When  Sir  John  was  told  what  had 
passed  he  was  very  angry  indeed,  and  said  that 
Peggy  had  made  fools  of  them  all.  His  anger 
was,  in  his  own  opinion,  justifiable,  and  this  time 
Lady  Metcalfe  did  not  wish  nor  try  to  screen  her 
daughter  from  the  paternal  wrath.  She  washed 
her  hands  of  her  and  left  her  to  her  fate  and  to 
the  sound  scolding  she  so  richly  deserved. 

She,  too,  had  been  deluded  by  the  calm  of  the 
past  three  months.  She  had  felt  that  Peggy  had 
somehow  realized  the  enormity  of  her  conduct 
and  had  tried  to  make  amends  for  her  behavior 
while  at  Lavender.  She  had  not  let  Hugh  come 
until  she  felt  quite  sure  that  Peggy  was  in  a 


202  THE  REST  HOUSE 

state  of  submission,  of  filial  tractability.  Lady 
Metcalfe  had  played  her  cards  with  great  care, 
calculating  all  the  chances.  But  it  can  not  be 
denied  that  the  most  skilful  players  are  often 
put  out  of  their  reckoning  by  one  who  defiantly 
disregards  all  the  rules  and  conventions  of  the 
game;  it  upsets  the  balance  and  poise  of  things, 
producing  confusion  and  complications. 

Perhaps  that  apparent  change  had  been  simply 
a  surface  thing — an  astute  maneuvre  intended 
to  divert  attention  from  the  real  thoughts  that 
were  swaying  her.  And  when  Lady  Metcalfe 
put  two  and  two  together  and  thought  of  Peggy's 
refusal  to  accompany  her  to  church  on  Easter 
Sunday,  and  of  her  own  discovery  of  the  "Garden 
of  the  Soul,"  she  began  to  attribute  the  whole 
business  to  the  influence  of  Morford.  Was  she 
still  thinking  of  him  ?  Were  her  leanings  toward 
Catholicism  still  governing  her  thoughts?  A 
week  ago  Lady  Metcalfe  would  most  unhesitat- 
ingly have  answered  both  these  questions  with  a 
decisive  negative.  But  her  daughter's  refusal  of 
Hugh  Quentin  had  upset  all  her  calculations,  and 
then  there  had  been  that  disagreeable  exhibition 
of  rebellion  on  Easter  Sunday.  No,  it  was  impos- 
sible to  dogmatize  about  Peggy.  There  was  some- 
thing elusive  about  the  girl — something  one  could 
not  hold  or  handle.  In  the  first  ebullition  of  her 
own  wrath  she  placed  her  husband  in  full  pos- 
session of  all  the  facts  of  the  case  in  so  far  as 
she  herself  knew  them,  and  begged  him  to  give 
Peggy  the  talking-to  which  she  merited. 

"When  she  was  a  small  child  I  always  had  to 
bring  her  to  you  when  I  couldn't  manage  her," 


THE  REST  HOUSE  203 

said  Lady  Metcalfe.  Her  complacency  had 
broken  down  and  she  was  in  tears.  "Will  you 
talk  to  her,  John?" 

"I  can't  force  her  to  marry  a  man  she  doesn't 
want,"  said  Sir  John,  "but  you  send  her  to  me 
and  I'll  tell  her  straight  what  I  think  about  all 
this  Roman  Catholic  nonsense.  That's  what 
we've  got  to  put  a  stop  to,  and  I'm  only  sorry 
you  didn't  tell  me  about  it  long  ago.  It  oughtn't 
to  have  been  allowed  to  go  on." 

His  grim  hatchet  face  had  an  unpleasantly  de- 
termined expression,  as  Peggy  advanced  into  the 
study  in  obedience  to  the  paternal  summons. 
She  had  been  waiting  for  it,  dreading  it  all  day, 
and  now  the  moment  had  come  she  did  not  feel 
quite  so  nervous  as  she  expected.  Many  years 
must  have  elapsed  since  she  had  last  been  sum- 
moned to  appear  before  that  ultimate  tribunal. 

"What's  this  I  hear  about  you  and  Quentin?" 
growled  Sir  John. 

But  as  he  looked  at  Peggy  his  heart  softened 
a  little.  She  looked  so  young — almost  like  a 
child!  There  was  something  pathetic  and  ap- 
pealing in  that  so  evident  effort  to  appear  calm 
and  controlled. 

"I  am  sorry,  father,"  said  Peggy  simply,  rais- 
ing her  dark  eyes  to  his. 

"Sorry?"  repeated  Sir  John,  with  a  little  snort 
of  contempt;  "you  should  have  said  straight  out 
you  didn't  mean  to  marry  him  when  your  mother 
first  talked  about  asking  him  down.  You  knew 
what  he  was  coming  for.  Your  mother  told  me 
she  had  put  it  before  you  quite  clearly." 

"I  didn't  know  that  he  was  going  to  ask  me 


204  THE  REST  HOUSE 

to  marry  him.  It  never  entered  my  head  until — 
until  mother  told  me  to  put  on  that  pink  dress. 
But  when  she  did  speak  to  me  I  said  I  couldn't 
marry  him.  She  didn't  believe  me — she  thought 
I  was  going  to  be  like  Beatrice!" 

Although  this  slightly  altered  the  complexion 
of  affairs  in  Peggy's  favor,  Sir  John  had  other 
reasons  for  being  imperfectly  satisfied. 

"In  Beatrice's  case,"  he  said,  "there  was  Claude 
Vernon — a  most  ineligible  young  man.  May  I 
ask  who  the  fortune  hunter  is  in  your  case,  who 
is  trying  to  persuade  you  not  to  marry  Quentin?" 

A  very  deep  flush  overspread  Peggy's  face. 
But  her  eyes  met  her  father's  squarely  and  there 
was  something  fearless  in  her  answer. 

"No  one  has  persuaded  me.  I  have  never  cared 
for  Hugh  at  all.  I  liked  him  as  I  have  always 
liked  Peter's  friends — because  they  were  his 
friends." 

In  spite  of  the  deepening  color  in  her  cheeks 
her  voice  was  cool  and  steady. 

"That  is  an  evasive  answer.  Who  is  this  other 
man — the  Claude  Vernon  in  your  case?" 

"There  is  no  other  man,"  said  Peggy.  Her 
heart  beat  violently  against  her  body,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  between  herself  and  her  father 
she  saw  another  figure — a  dark,  looming  figure. 
And  it  flashed  into  her  memory  that  Hugh  had 
said  Morford  had  looked  at  her  as  no  man  would 
look  at  a  girl  unless  he  were  in  love  with  her.  It 
was  a  mistake,  of  course,  born  of  Hugh's  foolish 
jealousy  of  Morford,  but  the  words  came  back 
very  forcibly  to  her  mind  at  that  moment.  He 
did  not  care  for  her,  she  felt  certain  of  that;  he 


THE  REST  HOUSE  205 

had  not  even  wished  to  help  her;  he  had  always 
been  a  little  disdainful  of  her  passionate  interest 
in  the  Catholic  Church.  Peggy  had  never  tried 
to  analyze  her  own  feeling  for  him;  she  only 
knew  that  she  was  a  little  afraid  of  him,  of  his 
sternness,  his  strength,  that  roughness  which  was 
so  wounding  in  his  speech.  Why  should  she 
think  of  Morford  now  when  her  father  harshly 
demanded  what  man  was  trying  to  dissuade  her 
from  marrying  Hugh?  There  was  no  Claude 
Vernon  in  her  case,  no  young  and  ardent  lover 
pleading  his  cause  as  Claude  had  pleaded  his  with 
Beatrice.  There  could  not  possibly  be  anything 
in  her  feeling  for  Morford  that  could  prevent  her 
from  falling  in  love  with  and  marrying  another 
man.  Peggy  chased  the  very  possibility  of  such 
a  thing  from  her  mind  as  soon  as  the  thought 
presented  itself.  It  was  impossible — a  man 
whom  she  had  only  seen  twice !  A  man  who  had 
not  been  kind  or  agreeable  at  all,  but  who  had 
flung  hard  truths  at  her. 

"There  is  no  other  man,"  she  repeated. 

"That  is  not  true!"  said  Sir  John  with  cold 
violence.  "There  is  a  man — the  one  you  stayed 
with  in  Somersetshire  last  winter  when  you  and 
Peter  met  with  that  motor  accident  and  the  car 
had  to  be  dug  out  of  a  drift.  Your  mother  has 
told  me  about  him,  and  I  only  wish  she  had  told 
me  about  him  before.  I  know  how  conspicuous 
you  made  yourself  at  the  Hunt  Ball  Beatrice 
took  you  to.  She  sent  you  home  because  the  man 
was  still  in  the  neighborhood,  and  she  refused 
to  have  the  responsibility  of  looking  after  you 
any  more.  I  daresay  these  incidents  sound  trivial 


206  THE  REST  HOUSE 

in  themselves — young  girls  are  often  indiscreet 
and  you  are  singularly  childish  and  unformed 
for  your  age.  But  it  happens  to  be  the  only 
instance  in  which  you  have  ever  displayed  the 
slightest  preference  for  or  interest  in  any  par- 
ticular man.  We  are  obliged,  therefore,  to  be- 
lieve that  you  have  a  preference  for  this  Mr.  Mor- 
f  ord  and  that  there  may  even  exist  a  secret  under- 
standing between  you!" 

During  this  speech,  delivered  almost  in  the 
manner  of  an  oration,  Peggy  stood  transfixed 
and  motionless  before  her  father,  as  if  her  feet 
were  glued  to  the  ground.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
the  very  secrets  of  her  heart — secrets  upon  which 
she  had  never  dared  to  look — were  being  torn 
ruthlessly  from  her,  and  contemptuously  ex- 
posed to  common  view.  That  conversation  with 
Morford,  which  had  been  intimate  only  on  the 
spiritual  plane,  was  being  criticized  and  regarded 
as  if  it  were  a  mere  vulgar  flirtation.  The  evi- 
dence against  her  had  been  carefully  sifted  and 
collated,  and  as  her  father  proceeded  to  elab- 
orate it  like  an  accusing  counsel  she  felt  that 
curious  and  dreadful  sinking  of  the  heart  which 
so  often  precedes  the  materialization  of  some 
acutely  apprehensive  fear.  She  had  striven  to 
hide  from  herself  the  profound  influence  that 
Morford  had  gained  over  her  during  those  two 
interviews,  and  now  she  could  not  but  see  that  this 
knowledge  was  securely  in  the  possession  of  her 
parents.  But  they  had  not  yet,  she  hoped,  pene- 
trated to  the  heart  of  that  secret,  and  discovered 
the  reason  of  that  influence  which  had  governed 
her  daily  life  during  these  past  months.  Her 


THE  REST  HOUSE  207 

father's  next  words  roughly  dispelled  that  illu- 
sion. 

"This  man  is,  I  understand,  a  Roman  Catholic. 
Whether  he  is  in  love  with  you  I  do  not  know, 
but  it  is  quite  certain  he  believes  that  you  will 
have  a  dot  equal  to  that  of  your  sisters.  And 
your  mother  assures  me  that  he  is  further  exert- 
ing his  influence  to  proselytize — that  you  have 
already  spoken  to  her  on  the  subject — that  you 
have  even  attended  services  in  a  Roman  Catholic 
church,  although  you  must  have  been  perfectly 
aware  of  our  attitude  toward  them.  This  conduct 
of  yours  needs  no  comment.  We  have  often  had 
to  find  fault  with  you  and  correct  you  for  in- 
subordination and  disobedience  in  the  past,  but  I 
hoped  as  you  grew  older  you  would  become  wiser 
and  more  docile.  That  has,  unfortunately, 
proved  a  false  hope.  You  have  refused  a  man — 
good  and  excellent  and  devoted  to  you.  That  is 
in  itself  perfectly  excusable,  although  you  cer- 
tainly led  us  to  believe  that  you  intended  to  accept 
him.  But  you  have  in  addition  to  this  shown  a 
horrible  preference  for  a  man  beneath  you  in 
social  position,  practising  a  religion  of  which  we 
highly  disapprove.  You  are  continually  engaged 
in  thwarting  and  defying  us.  I  should  place  my- 
self in  the  wrong  if  I  deceived  you  on  the  point. 
Unless  you  marry  with  our  consent  and  approval 
you  shall  never  receive  a  penny  piece  from  me, 
either  now  or  after  my  death.  And  if  you  become 
a  Roman  Catholic  you  will  equally  forfeit  any 
participation  in  my  wealth,  and  you  shall  never 
from  the  day  you  become  one  be  permitted  to 
enter  this  house  again.  Do  you  understand  me, 


208  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Peggy?  I  am  perfectly  serious  and  I  mean  every 
word  I  say.  I  only  wish  I  had  been  in  possession 
of  all  the  facts  a  little  sooner,  but  your  mother 
hoped  that  you  were  learning  to  regret  and  re- 
pent your  folly — she  believed  that  you  were  go- 
ing to  make  amends  for  it.  I  am  sorry,  however, 
that  you  were  not  warned  before  Quentin  came 
about  our  attitude  toward  this  other  man.'* 

"It  would  not  have  made  any  difference,"  said 
Peggy  slowly. 

She  was  a  little  bewildered;  her  father's  long 
speech  had  confused  her;  it  seemed  to  touch  so 
many  and  such  important  issues.  And  all  the 
time  she  had  felt  that  the  words  had  been  like  a 
succession  of  little  hammers  beating  cruelly  and 
persistently  upon  her  brain.  She  was  still 
standing,  and  she  felt  very  tired.  But  she  had 
always  been  forced  to  stand  as  a  child  when 
her  father  was  reproving  her.  It  was  all  part 
of  the  dreadful  discipline  that  governed  those 
occasions. 

Although  she  had  been  listening  attentively  to 
her  father,  and  no  part  of  his  meaning  had  been 
uncomprehended  by  her,  she  seemed  all  the  time 
to  be  listening  to  Morford's  voice  saying:  "But 
you!  What  could  you  do?  You  would  most 
certainly  starve.  You  might  be  turned  out  with- 
out a  penny.  Of  course  there  are  people  who  are 
strong  enough  to  suffer  every  imaginable  priva- 
tion for  their  Faith.  But  you  must  forgive  me, 
Miss  Metcalfe,  if  I  do  most  seriously  doubt  your 
capability  of  being  one  of  theml"  She  remem- 
bered, too,  the  strange  look  of  pity  and  disdain 
that  had  accompanied  those  words ;  it  seemed  to 


THE  REST  HOUSE  209 

her  now  that  Morford  was  really  present,  so 
clearly  could  she  visualize  him. 

Now  she  was  conscious  of  a  sensation  of  shrink- 
ing physical  weakness.  Was  it  true,  as  Morford 
had  said,  that  she  was  not  one  of  those  strong 
and  ardent  souls  who  can  suffer  all  things  for 
their  Faith — who  can  go  to  martyrdom  singing 
the  praises  of  God?  Was  she  only,  when  it  came 
to  the  bed-rock  of  the  matter,  only  a  rebellious, 
disobedient,  undutiful  daughter?  There  was 
something  drooping  and  pitiful  about  her  now — 
slight,  childish,  weak. 

"What  has  this  man  said  to  you  to  induce  you 
to  defy  us  and  behave  in  this  way?"  pursued  her 
father,  with  growing  anger.  "What  understand- 
ing is  there  between  you?  He  must  be  singularly 
unscrupulous  to  approach  any  one  so  childish  and 
young  and  easily  led." 

Even  now  he  did  not  lose  his  temper;  there 
was  something  cold  as  well  as  fierce  in  his  man- 
ner; he  had  perfect  control  over  himself. 

"There  is  no  understanding,"  said  Peggy  des- 
perately. "It  is  true  that  I  did  ask  him  questions 
about  the  Catholic  Church  when  I  stayed  at  the 
Rest  House  with  Peter  last  December.  But  it  is 
not  the  case  that  he  ever  encouraged  me  or  tried 
to — to  proselytize.  Indeed — indeed,  he  did  not 
wish  to  speak  to  me  about  these  things  at  all — he 
did  not  think  I  should  be  strong  enough  to  perse- 
vere." She  strained  her  clasped  hands  to  her 
heart  as  if  to  check  its  wild  beating.  "It  was  I 
who  asked — who  begged  him  to  explain." 

"That  is  not  the  version  Beatrice  gave,"  said 
Sir  John ;  "she  said  that  he  never  took  the  slight- 


210  THE  REST  HOUSE 

est  notice  of  any  one  in  the  room  but  yourself. 
He  made  you  conspicuous  the  whole  evening  by 
his  attentions.  Do  not  tell  me  that  a  man  would 
permit  himself  to  be  detained  by  any  woman  for 
two  hours,  answering  questions  that  he  did  not 
want  to  answer,  unless  he  wished  to  be  there. 
This  man  has  used  his  influence  for  some  special 
reason ;  he  is  either  trying  to  marry  you  for  your 
supposed  fortune  or  he  is  one  of  those  fanatics 
that  must  always  proselytize  whenever  he  can 
find  any  one  weak  and  silly  enough  to  listen  to 
him.  But  I  am  convinced  the  first  hypothesis  is 
the  correct  one." 

"I  am  quite  sure  he  could  not  possibly  wish  to 
marry  me,"  said  Peggy  in  a  low  voice;  "he  has 
only  seen  me  twice  and  I  am  sure  he  does  not 
like  me.  I  think  he  even  disliked  me  if  he  thought 
about  me  at  all!  And  he  was  not  encouraging 
when  I  asked  him  about  the  Catholic  Church.  I 
do  not  think  that  he  wished  to  tell  me  about  it." 

Sir  John  had  small  sense  of  humor  at  the  best 
of  times,  and  at  present  his  anger  eclipsed  all 
that  he  might  possess,  or  surely  this  naive  state- 
ment must  have  wrung  an  unwilling  smile  from 
him. 

"You  are  convicted  by  your  own  words,"  he 
went  on,  "of  having  wilfully  played  with  for- 
bidden things.  You  actually  took  the  first  oppor- 
tunity you  had  ever  had  of  making  inquiries 
about  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  Once  for  all, 
Peggy,  I  forbid  it!"  He  raised  his  voice.  "Do 
you  hear?  I  forbid  it!"  He  rose  and  came  a 
step  toward  her  almost  menacingly.  Peggy  had 
a  moment's  dreadful  fear  that  he  was  going  to 


THE  REST  HOUSE  211 

strike  her.  "You  are  very  wicked  and  ungrate- 
ful and  disobedient !  Whatever  this  man  has  said 
or  not  said  to  you,  I  can  see  that  he  is  exerting 
an  unholy  influence  over  you.  You  shall  never 
see  him  again.  I  do  not  believe  what  you  say  of 
him.  Either  he  has  made  love  to  you  or  he  is 
trying  to  entrap  you.  Remember  what  I  have 
told  you  to-day.  I  mean  every  word  of  it.  If  you 
disobey  me  in  either  of  these  respects  you  will 
suffer  very  heavily  for  it.  As  it  is,  your  mother 
will  see  that  your  liberty  is  curtailed.  You  will 
not  leave  home  or  go  about  by  yourself — you 
shall  not  even  visit  your  sisters.  We  shall  keep 
you  here  so  that  you  will  have  no  opportunity  of 
getting  into  mischief  and  ruining  your  own  life." 

"Please  may  I  go,  father?"  said  Peggy.  She 
was  trembling  now  with  fear.  His  raised  voice, 
his  threatening  attitude  seemed  to  deprive  her  of 
all  courage.  What  were  these  dreadful  things  he 
believed  of  Morford — a  man  he  had  never  seen? 
That  they  might  quite  possibly  be  true  seemed 
to  take  all  hope  out  of  her  heart. 

"Yes,  you  can  go  now.  Think  over  what  I 
have  said.  And  do  not  come  downstairs  again 
to-day.  You  have  upset  your  mother  very  much, 
and  I  do  not  choose  to  have  her  disturbed  by  your 
presence." 

Peggy  went  up  to  the  schoolroom.  Her  eyes 
were  smarting  with  the  tears  she  had  been  too 
proud  to  shed.  The  interview  had  been  much 
worse  than  she  had  expected;  in  all  her  life  she 
had  never  seen  Sir  John  so  angry  before.  It  had 
lasted  longer,  too,  than  she  had  expected,  and  it 
had  unnerved  her  a  little.  But  it  had  served  one 


212  THE  REST  HOUSE 

purpose — it  had  made  Peggy  envisage  quite 
clearly  her  own  attitude  toward  Frederick  Mor- 
ford. 

Whether  she  loved  him  or  not  she  could  not  tell. 
There  was  too  much  fear  mixed  up  in  her  feel- 
ing for  him.  Surely  that  strange  unrest,  that 
trembling  excitement  which  his  presence  pro- 
voked, could  not  be  called  love.  She  had  honestly 
believed  that  she  had  only  been  so  delighted  to 
see  him  again  because  she  longed  to  speak  to  him 
of  her  experience  at  the  Rest  House  and  to  ques- 
tion him  anew  about  those  things  she  wished  so 
passionately  to  learn.  But  her  father's  words  had 
torn  every  shred  of  self-deception  from  her  mind. 
She  saw  one  fact  quite  clearly,  and  that  was 
that  while  Morford  was  in  the  world  she  could 
never  marry  another  man.  Not  Hugh — not  any- 
body. She  had  never  known  this  until  now,  and 
she  was  still  uncertain  of  her  love  for  him.  But 
before  she  could  ever  marry  any  one  else  she 
would  have  to  forget  Morford  utterly — his  face, 
his  words,  his  strong,  almost  fierce  personality. 
And  she  was  nothing  to  him  at  all — in  spite  of  all 
that  Hugh  and  Beatrice  and  her  father  had  said. 
She  knew  quite  well  that  he  did  not  like  her  at 
all.  Her  very  questions  had  aroused  within  him 
a  certain  ironic  irritability.  He  never  seemed  to 
take  her  seriously.  She  was  to  him  only  a  silly, 
spoiled  child,  impossibly  indulged,  and  in  search 
of  a  new  and  perhaps  forbidden  sensation.  It 
hurt  her  to  believe  that  she  was  an  object  of 
scorn,  almost  of  derision,  to  Frederick  Morford. 
If  he  could  see  her  now — her  tears,  her  weakness, 
her  utter  want  of  spirit  and  pluck,  he  would  be 


THE  REST  HOUSE  213 

more  than  ever  convinced  that  she  was  not  among 
those  who  are  capable  of  suffering  all  things  for 
their  Faith. 

Perhaps  she  was  unworthy  to  be  a  Catholic. 
And  if  she  were  to  become  one  it  would  be  a 
crowning  offense  in  the  eyes  of  her  parents,  merit- 
ing complete  banishment.  She  would  be  sent 
away  and  perhaps  she  would  never  see  Peter 
again — they  would  certainly  forbid  him  to  go  and 
see  her  or  help  her  in  any  way.  Yes,  Morford 
was  right ;  she  was  not  strong  enough.  She  could 
face  being  poor  and  homeless,  but  she  could  not 
cut  herself  off  from  Peter — that  would  be  a  sacri- 
fice too  great  to  be  borne.  And  perhaps — this 
thought  came  to  her  now  as  a  supreme  torture — 
Peter  would  blame  her  too.  Already  he  was  not 
quite  sympathetic  about  her  refusal  of  Hugh. 
He  would  have  liked  to  see  her  the  wife  of  his 
great  friend.  The  marriage  would  have  pleased 
every  one.  A  year  ago  she  might  even  have  con- 
sented to  it  as  a  natural  destiny.  This  brought 
her  thoughts  back  to  that  tremendous  starting- 
place.  She  could  not  marry  Hugh  or  any  one 
else  while  Morford  was  in  the  world.  The  wish 
to  see  him,  to  speak  to  him,  was  too  strong.  She 
did  not  love  him,  but  she  had  felt  in  his  presence 
that  sudden,  swift  sympathy  that  has  been  called 
— though  she  did  not  recognize  it  as  such — love  at 
first  sight.  She  wondered  if  he  had  felt  it  too. 

She  looked  round  the  room  and  she  saw  with 
renewed  interest  those  photographs  of  her  sisters ; 
it  was  Beatrice's  especially  that  claimed  her  atten- 
tion. Beatrice  in  her  first  Court  dress — young 
and  beautiful  as  she  had  been  in  the  davs  when 


214  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Claude  Vernon  loved  her.  But  those  later  pre- 
sentments with  Ethne  and  Jack  and  little 
Verena  grouped  around  her  seemed  to  express  a 
deeper  contentment,  a  satisfaction,  a  quietness, 
that  the  older  photograph  did  not  possess.  If 
she  married  Hugh  would  she  learn  to  close  the 
book  of  the  past  utterly  and  live  only  in  her 
children?  But  Peggy  saw  clearly  it  was  not  only 
Morford  that  held  her  so  close  a  prisoner.  It 
was  the  long  night  she  had  spent  last  year  in 
the  chapel  of  the  Rest  House  that  held  her  so 
powerfully.  She  could  not  bury  that  experi- 
ence, as  she  would  have  to  bury  it  if  she  became 
Hugh's  wife.  She  could  not  be  false  to  her  own 
word,  that  came  back  to  her  again  as  it  had  done 
so  often  before,  with  all  the  binding  force  of  a 
most  solemn  vow:  "'Oh,  I  will  come — I  will 
come." 

Yes,  it  was  that  word  of  hers  that  made  this 
proposed  marriage  so  impossible.  At  the  remem- 
brance of  it  all  thought  of  Morford  left  her  mind. 
She  closed  the  door  and  knelt  down  upon  a  prie- 
dieu  chair  decorated  on  back  and  seat  with  in- 
tricate Victorian  designs.  Mind  and  heart  be- 
came utterly  emptied  of  all  worldly  puzzles  and 
problems  and  bewilderments.  She  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands  and  with  bowed  head  remained  for 
a  long  time  without  moving.  And  as  she  knelt 
there  in  an  attitude  that  was  in  itself  symbolic 
of  her  complete  submission  to  the  Divine  Will,  a 
wonderful  peace  flowed  in  upon  her  heart,  healing 
its  wounds. 

No  one  disturbed  her.  She  was  not  conscious 
of  prayer,  only  of  that  inrush  of  peace  that  gave 


THE  REST  HOUSE  215 

her  hope  and  strength,  fortifying  her  resolution. 
When  at  last  she  raised  her  head  she  saw  that 
twilight  was  beginning  to  draw  thin  blue  veils 
across  the  brightness  of  the  spring  sky.  In  the 
west  there  were  bars  of  purple  and  amber  melting 
to  gray.  A  star,  very  white  and  brilliant,  flick- 
ered above  the  elms  in  the  Park.  Through  the 
open  window  a  breeze  stirred,  its  cold,  clean 
breath  touched  her  face  with  a  reviving,  bracing 
quality.  Physically  she  was  exhausted  and  a 
little  hungry.  But  the  remembrance  of  her 
father's  harshness  had  vanished,  leaving  no  scar. 
She  was  reassured  as  to  her  own  strength,  her 
own  power  of  endurance. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN  THE  weeks  that  followed  pressure  was  ap- 
plied with  a  new  and  significant  turning  of 
the  screw  that  governed  the  rack. 

Outwardly  everything  went  on  just  as  usual. 
Sir  John  sometimes  secretly  congratulated  him- 
self upon  the  success  of  his  methods  for  setting 
his  own  house  in  order.  There  was  no  word  of 
remonstrance  from  Peggy,  who  accepted  the 
novel  restrictions  of  her  lot  with  perfect  cheerful- 
ness and  submission.  It  could  not  be  that  she  was 
insensible  of  the  pressure,  for  Lady  Metcalfe — 
restored  to  an  almost  complete  assumption  of 
complacency — had  not  hesitated  to  show  her 
daughter  invitations  from  Diana  and  Beatrice, 
accompanied  by  a  mournful  regret  that  they 
could  not  under  the  circumstances  be  accepted. 
It  had  always  been  one  of  Peggy's  great  pleas- 
ures to  go  and  stay  with  her  sisters.  She  was 
especially  fond  of  Beatrice's  children.  Last  sea- 
son she  had  spent  two  whole  months  in  Beatrice's 
big  house  in  Portman  Square,  and  had  enjoyed 
a  much  larger  measure  of  liberty  there  than  she 
did  at  home.  There  were  delicious  days  when 
Peter  came  to  take  her  to  Hurlingham  or  Rane- 
lagh;  to  watch  the  flying  at  Brooklands  or  to 
spend  long  hours  on  the  river  with  him.  Some- 
times they  went  to  the  play  together.  She  was 
always  much  happier  when  going  about  alone 
with  Peter  in  this  informal  way  than  when  Bea- 
trice insisted  upon  taking  her  to  fashionable  f une- 

216 


THE  REST  HOUSE  217 

tions  in  huge  houses  where  she  felt  horribly  alone 
and  astray.  Now  she  was  made  to  see  that  she 
was  not  to  enjoy  these  pleasures.  Her  father's 
threat  about  restricting  her  liberty  had  been  no 
idle  one;  it  was  severely  put  into  practice  in  the 
weeks  that  followed  the  storm. 

In  all  this  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that 
Sir  John  and  his  wife  were  actuated  by  no  other 
motive  than  to  secure  the  welfare  of  their  child 
according  to  their  own  rigorous  conception  of  it. 
They  did  not  enjoy  hurting  Peggy — it  was 
simply  a  necessary  measure  to  prevent  her  from 
utterly  ruining  her  life,  as  it  seemed  only  too 
probable  that  she  would  do  if  she  were  not  for- 
cibly restrained.  They  were  obliged  to  take  pre- 
cautions just  as  they  had  been  obliged  when  she 
was  a  little  girl  to  punish  her  into  submission. 
It  was  not  a  pleasant  process  for  either  party, 
but  it  had  to  be  done. 

"So  different  from  darling  Beatrice,"  sighed 
Lady  Metcalfe. 

Lady  Metcalfe  corresponded  with  Hugh,  who 
had  taken  his  broken  heart  to  Africa,  where  he 
meant  to  start  a  farm  in  the  intervals  of  big  game 
shooting.  Boldly  she  urged  him  not  to  give  up 
hope.  Peggy  was  too  young  to  know  her  own 
mind ;  she  would  think  quite  differently  about  it 
later  on.  In  a  few  months,  perhaps. 

Hugh  was  more  comforted  than  convinced  by 
the  letters.  He  felt  that  he  knew  Peggy  better 
than  her  mother  did.  Love  is  not  always  blind. 
Indeed,  it  can  be  productive  of  a  very  enlighten- 
ing process,  particularly  if  it  is  not  returned. 


218  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Peggy  was  quite  as  cheerful  and  amenable  as 
she  had  been  before  that  unfortunate  episode. 
Although  they  did  not  perceive  it,  being  too 
deeply  engaged  in  their  silent  surveillance  of  her 
outward  actions  to  care  about  the  interior  con- 
flict, she  gained  in  those  days  many  small  vic- 
tories over  herself.  That  self -discipline  and  con- 
quest did  not  come  very  easily  to  her,  but  she  was 
considerably  helped  by  the  knowledge  that  she 
was  trying  to  carry  out  Morford's  advice.  And 
the  sense  of  her  own  unworthiness  to  become  a 
Catholic  acted  as  a  sharp  scourge  that  stimulated 
her  to  fresh  effort.  And  very  slowly,  very  pain- 
fully she  was  learning  her  first  lessons  in  that 
detachment  which  forms  so  great  a  part  of  Cath- 
olic life. 

She  saw  that  when  the  time  came  for  her  to 
make  her  final  choice  no  thought  of  her  love  for 
Peter  must  be  permitted  to  hold  her  back.  The 
question  had  presented  itself  to  her  once  as  a  fierce 
temptation.  But  she  had  very  soon  learned  to 
put  it  on  one  side.  It  was  a  hard  saying — that 
Divine  Word  that  set  forth  so  plainly  the  neces- 
sity of  putting  on  one  side  the  dearest,  closest 
human  ties — but  it  was  one,  too,  that  admitted 
of  no  appeal.  Peggy  did  often  in  those  days  med- 
itate upon  the  fact  of  her  own  conversion.  It  had 
been  quite  sudden,  quite  unprovoked  and  per- 
fectly complete.  The  truth  had  been  abruptly 
and  as  it  were  accidentally  presented  to  her,  and 
she  had  accepted  it  without  the  slightest  hesita- 
tion. No  convert  lives,  perhaps,  who  has  not  in 
some  sense  participated  in  greater  or  lesser  de- 
gree in  the  blindness  that  fell  upon  St.  Paul  on 


THE  REST  HOUSE  219 

his  way  to  Damascus,  when  he  first  heard  the 
Voice  summoning  him  to  submission.  It  is  a 
blindness  that  forces  the  soul  to  concentrate  upon 
that  interior  light  so  recently  vouchsafed  and  be- 
stowed. 

With  Peggy  there  had  never  been  any  serious 
disposition  to  look  backward.  But  from  the  day 
of  her  interview  with  her  father  her  resolve 
strengthened  from  day  to  day.  She  would  be 
twenty-one  in  October,  and  after  that  she  could 
foresee  no  future  for  herself  beyond  the  fact  that 
that  date  would  mark  her  entrance  into  the  Cath- 
olic Church. 

Her  cheerful  acceptance  of  those  novel  disabil- 
ities imposed  upon  her  did  not  escape  the  notice 
of  Lady  Metcalfe,  who  felt  that  the  ultimate  do- 
mestic tribunal  had  not  been  appealed  to  in  vain. 
Whatever  Sir  John  may  have  said  to  his  daugh- 
ter— and  by  his  own  showing  he  had  not  minced 
his  words — the  effect  had  been  wonderfully  suc- 
cessful in  bringing  Peggy  to  reason.  They  had 
no  reason  to  find  fault  with  her  in  the  summer 
months  that  ensued,  and  Lady  Metcalfe  had  even 
been  heard  to  say  that  Peggy  had  quite  ceased  to 
be  troublesome.  Her  hopes  turned  resolutely 
Quentin-ward  in  spite  of  past  defeat ;  she  thought 
it  would  be  quite  a  good  plan  to  take  Peggy  up 
to  stay  with  Beatrice  about  the  time  of  Hugh's 
return  from  Africa.  His  return  was  to  be 
hastened  by  the  fact  that  he  had  been  suffering 
from  an  attack  of  fever.  Peggy's  soft  heart 
would  be  touched,  perhaps,  by  the  sight  of  a  suf- 
fering Hugh. 

When  Peggy  first  heard  the  plan  of  going  to 


220  THE  BEST  HOUSE 

London  mooted  she  felt  an  indescribable  sensa- 
tion of  joy.  In  October  she  would  be  twenty- 
one  and  it  was  in  October  that  Lady  Metcalfe 
proposed  to  take  her  to  town,  ostensibly  to  do 
their  autumn  shopping.  Beatrice  was  spending 
the  autumn  in  London  as  she  was  expecting  once 
more  to  become  a  mother,  and  she  was  delighted 
at  the  thought  of  having  her  mother  and  sister 
with  her. 

Peggy  had  made  no  definite  plans,  and  the 
question  of  the  ways  and  means  was  for  the  pres- 
ent quite  beyond  her.  It  hurt  her  to  think  of  all 
the  secret  intentions  that  lay  behind  her  eager- 
ness to  accompany  her  mother.  She  was  nat- 
urally straightforward,  and  to  plan  and  plot  in 
secret  were  repulsive  to  her.  But  she  saw,  too, 
that  if  she  let  the  slightest  hint  escape  her  she 
would  not  be  allowed  to  leave  Mildon  at  all.  It 
was  all  very  difficult  and  she  had  no  one  to  advise 
her.  The  only  thing  that  seemed  quite  clear  to 
her  was  that  she  must  fulfill  her  promise  made 
first  at  the  Rest  House  and  since  renewed  many 
hundreds  of  times. 

Lady  Metcalfe  had  many  engagements  in  Lon- 
don, many  friends  to  see,  much  shopping  to  do. 
Beatrice  was  not  well,  and  she  often  left  Peggy 
at  home  to  keep  her  sister  company.  The  autumn 
days  were  rather  wet,  but  Lady  Metcalfe  defied 
weather  in  her  beautiful  limousine. 

Peggy's  opportunity  came  one  afternoon  when 
her  mother  had  gone  out  with  some  friends. 
Beatrice  announced  her  intention  of  going  up  to 
her  room  to  rest.  There  were  plenty  of  new 
books,  she  told  Peggy,  and  as  it  was  so  wet,  per- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  221 

haps  she  would  not  mind  staying  indoors  alone 
just  for  once.  It  was  only  till  tea-time,  and  then 
she  herself  would  come  down  again. 

Peggy  waited  alone  for  a  few  minutes  after  her 
sister  had  left  her  and  then  ran  quickly  up  to  her 
own  room.  She  dressed  herself  as  inconspicu- 
ously as  possible  in  a  long  dark  coat  and  a  little 
close  fur  hat ;  then  she  went  downstairs  again  and 
out  of  the  front  door  without  any  one  observing 
her  departure. 

She  walked  very  fast  until  she  came  to  the 
Marble  Arch  and  there  the  hurrying  crowds 
seemed  to  confuse  and  bewilder  her.  She  almost 
ran  into  a  little  throng  of  people  pouring  out 
of  the  Tube  station.  It  was  raining  fast,  and  her 
umbrella  seemed  to  get  into  every  one's  way. 
The  road  was  crowded  with  taxis  and  motors 
and  carriages  of  all  descriptions,  while  the  heavy, 
lumbering,  motor-omnibuses  painted  bright  scar- 
let passed  east  and  west  with  their  crowded 
human  freight.  She  was  thankful  when  she  suc- 
ceeded at  last  in  crossing  that  road,  which  is  per- 
haps one  of  the  most  dangerous  in  all  London 
to  the  pedestrian,  and  found  herself  safely  in- 
side the  Park. 

The  Park  was  comparatively  deserted  except 
by  a  few  carriages  and  motors  passing  through, 
and  here  and  there  a  figure  hurrying  forward  like 
herself  under  a  dripping  umbrella.  She  went 
down  a  side  path  and  gained  at  last  the  Prince's 
Gate  entrance. 

Now  she  could  see  the  violet  dome  of  the  Ora- 
tory surmounted  by  a  gold  cross  outlined  against 
the  pale  gray  of  the  sky.  It  was  already  getting 


222  THE  REST  HOUSE 

a  little  dusk,  for  in  the  shortening  October  days 
darkness  comes  early  to  London.  To-day  there 
were  none  of  those  beautiful,  strange,  misty 
effects  that  sometimes  make  the  twilight  in  Lon- 
don so  exquisite  a  thing;  all  was  obscure  and 
gray;  and  dark  clouds  promising  still  more  rain 
were  hurrying  across  the  sky. 

Peggy  paused  for  a  moment  under  the  plane- 
trees  in  the  Park,  watching  the  stream  of  life  go 
by — the  endless  procession  of  vehicles  and  people 
that  passed  up  and  down  the  road  in  shifting 
phantasmagoric  groups  and  colors.  The  stir  of 
the  traffic  evoked  a  sense  of  excitement  within 
her;  she  liked  the  feeling  that  she,  too,  was  form- 
ing part  of  that  teeming  life.  And  she  was  alone 
— she,  who  was  so  seldom  now  alone !  The  very 
sight  of  the  dome — dark,  strong,  enduring,  gave 
her  courage. 

Now  she  had  crossed  the  road  and  was  hasten- 
ing down  Ennismore  Gardens.  Many  of  the 
houses  were  still  empty  and  the  shutters  were 
fastened  across  the  windows,  giving  them  that 
peculiar,  blind  look  as  of  unseeing  eyes. 

She  turned  to  the  right  and  came  to  the  path 
that  leads  through  the  old  cemetery  with  its 
ancient  blackened  tombstones.  On  one  side  they 
stood  in  a  row  against  the  ivied  wall,  but  on  the 
other  side  of  the  railings  the  cemetery  stretched 
out  for  some  distance,  forming,  as  such  places  do, 
a  curious  contrast  to  the  stir  of  life  that  goes  on 
ceaselessly  so  near  to  them.  Even  on  this  dull 
autumn  day  the  grass  looked  very  green,  spread- 
ing out  like  a  sea  between  the  tombs  with  their 
stiff  inscriptions  and  the  inevitable  text,  express- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  223 

ive  always  of  some  deep  human  affection  or  belief 
in  the  resurrection  of  the  dead.  There  were  not 
many  people  walking  along  that  quiet  path  to- 
day; but  Peggy  noticed  those  who  did  pass  her 
almost  without  being  aware  of  it.  First  came  an 
errand-boy,  basket  on  arm  and  whistling  cheer- 
ily; he  was  followed  by  a  poor  woman  carrying 
a  baby  wrapped  in  a  shawl.  Then  came  two 
lovers,  their  arms  intertwined,  silent,  but  with  a 
look  of  foolish  bliss  on  their  pale  faces.  Now  she 
was  out  in  the  Brompton  Road,  and  its  crowded 
traffic  seemed  to  deafen  her  after  the  quiet  peace 
of  the  old  churchyard.  Opposite  stood  a  row  of 
shops,  already  showing  their  lights,  as  if  to  attract 
customers  within  from  the  wretched  conditions 
that  prevailed  outside.  Above  them  loomed  tall 
houses,  and  Peggy  had  sometimes  accompanied 
her  mother  to  visit  people  in  the  sumptuous  flats 
concealed  behind  those  curtained  windows.  She 
paused  for  a  moment  on  the  pavement  and  then 
quickly  turned.  A  few  steps  brought  her  to  the 
Oratory.  It  was  a  Thursday  afternoon  and 
already  people  were  to  be  seen  entering  the  big 
doors,  assembling  for  Benediction. 

Inside  the  great  building  it  was  very  quiet,  and 
Peggy  scarcely  noticed  now  the  stir  of  the  traffic. 
Far  off  she  could  see  through  the  mist  of  tears 
that  gathered  in  her  eyes  the  white  altar,  lying 
like  some  precious  pearl  across  the  gloom.  With 
an  instinct  to  hide  herself  from  curious  eyes,  she 
slipped  into  one  of  the  side  chapels  and  made  her 
way  toward  the  other  end  of  the  church.  She 
passed  a  large  Calvary  dimly  lit  with  lamps. 
People  were  kneeling  before  it  in  silent  prayer. 


224  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Peggy  paused  for  a  moment,  then  she,  too,  knelt 
down  and  prayed.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
offered  her  very  heart  to  God. 

The  beautiful  altar  of  Our  Lady  came  into 
view  as  she  moved  onward.  The  richness  and 
splendor  of  it  amazed  Peggy.  Wrought  richly 
with  delicately  colored  marbles,  it  looked  like  a 
wonderful  jewel  of  the  Italian  Renaissance.  But 
she  scarcely  paused  there  now.  Trembling  in 
every  limb,  she  began  to  cross  the  church  until  she 
came  in  front  of  the  Tabernacle.  Then  she  knelt 
down  and  hid  her  face,  bowing  low.  It  was 
nearly  a  year  since  she  had  been  in  the  presence 
of  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  and  for  a  few  minutes 
she  was  hardly  conscious  of  anything  at  all;  she 
was  faint  and  spent  with  emotion,  and  felt  as  one 
starved  suddenly  admitted  to  the  vision  of  food. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  analyze  her  thoughts 
then,  perhaps,  indeed,  they  were  too  sacred  and 
intimate  for  description.  But  she  was  uplifted 
in  a  veritable  ecstasy  of  thankfulness.  Perhaps 
the  one  enduring  advantage  that  the  convert  pos- 
sesses over  the  Catholic  born  and  bred  in  the 
Faith  is  that  supreme  sense  of  a  personal  and  in- 
dividual interposition  calling  them  arbitrarily  to 
the  Throne  of  Grace.  This  is  the  miracle  that 
characterizes  all  conversions.  Not  all  hear  the 
Divine  Voice.  "It  is  hard  for  ihee  to  kick  against 
the  goad"  Not  all  feel  the  touch  of  the  Divine 
Hand  smiting  them  to  blindness  of  all  but  His 
Great  Glory.  But  all  must  feel  that  wonderful, 
mystical  intervention  directly  appealing  to  the  in- 
dividual alone  that  brings  people  by  a  thousand 
paths  to  the  door  of  the  fold. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  225 

It  is  surely  the  remembrance  of  this  that  im- 
poses an  ineradicable  humility  upon  the  convert 
who  recognizes  the  unworthiness  of  his  own  heart 
to  receive  this  personal  Divine  favor. 

"I  want  to  see  a  priest,"  said  Peggy  suddenly. 
She  scarcely  knew  to  whom  she  was  addressing 
the  words,  but  a  little  elderly  woman  dressed 
shabbily  in  black  looked  up  from  her  prie-dieu 
and  answered  her. 

"You  will  find  one  in  the  confessional,"  she  said 
kindly. 

"Oh,  no — not  like  that,"  said  Peggy,  confused. 
"I  mean  I  want  to  talk  to  a  priest,  but  not  here — 
not  to — to  make  a  confession,"  she  added,  stam- 
mering. 

The  lady  pointed  to  a  bell  and  notice  on  the 
wall.  "You  had  better  ring  that  bell,  then,  and 
ask  to  see  a  priest  in  the  parlor,"  she  said. 

Peggy  hesitated  a  moment ;  she  knew  now  that 
she  was  going  to  make  the  first  tremendous  and 
decisive  step.  Her  heart  thumped  against  her 
body;  her  knees  trembled  and  her  throat  was  so 
dry  that  she  could  only  with  difficulty  articulate. 
But  she  had  come  at  last  to  the  cross-roads  that 
led  to  the  goal  for  which  her  soul  had  panted. 
There  must  be  no  going  back;  there  must  be  no 
looking  back. 

She  threw  back  her  head  a  little  and  with  firm 
step  followed  her  guide  into  the  parlor. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IT  is  among  the  priest's  most  difficult  duties  to 
assume  the  task  of  instructing  and  advising  a 
convert  who,  he  knows,  will  be  called  upon  in  all 
probability  to  surrender  home  and  friends  and 
wealth  from  the  day  of  his  reception  into  the 
Church,  to  forfeit,  indeed,  all  temporal  advan- 
tages for  the  sake  of  the  Faith  he  is  determined 
to  possess.  And  although  this  is  perhaps  now 
less  frequent  than  it  used  to  be,  it  happens  suffi- 
ciently often  for  Peggy's  case  to  be  no  unusual 
one.  Her  father's  words  had  been  quite  clear, 
and  she  knew  that  he  meant  every  one  of  them. 
He  was  not  a  man  to  indulge  in  idle  threats.  He 
had  done  his  best,  too,  to  shield  his  daughter  from 
carrying  out  her  intention,  for  he  did  not  wish 
to  put  those  threats  into  execution.  He  hoped 
that  his  words  would  prove  a  deterrent. 

But  Father  FitzGerald,  who  came  down  to  the 
parlor  in  answer  to  Peggy's  request  to  see  a 
priest,  had  seldom  questioned  an  intending  con- 
vert who  was  so  far  advanced  in  the  knowledge 
of  her  faith.  It  is  true  that  her  chief  book  of  in- 
struction had  been  confiscated,  but  not  until  she 
had  learned  almost  all  she  could  from  it.  She  was 
perfectly  convinced,  and  in  her  case  there  was  no 
need  for  argument  or  polemic;  her  attitude  was 
that  of  a  little  child  who  asks  humbly  to  be  taught 
all  that  it  is  necessary  to  know.  Peggy's  con- 

226 


THE  REST  HOUSE  227 

version  at  the  Rest  House  had  been  as  complete 
as  it  was  sudden.  She  had  had  nearly  a  year  to 
think  it  over,  to  satisfy  herself  that  the  step  was 
inevitable,  to  consider  her  powers  of  endurance. 
The  priest  gave  her  some  books,  and  she  prom- 
ised to  return  when  it  was  possible  to  do  so. 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  later  when  she  again 
passed  through  the  church.  Benediction  was 
just  over;  the  air  was  full  of  the  smoky  scent 
of  incense  and  the  odor  of  it  took  Peggy  back 
to  her  night  at  the  Rest  House.  She  knelt  down 
for  a  moment's  prayer,  but  she  could  not  remain 
long.  Already  there  was  danger  of  her  being 
late  for  tea. 

When  Peggy  came  in,  having  first  taken  off 
her  hat  and  coat,  Beatrice  was  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Her  sister  did  not  inquire  how  she  had 
spent  the  afternoon ;  she  imagined  that  as  it  was 
so  wet  she  could  not  have  been  tempted  to  leave 
the  house.  And  although  Peggy  looked  un- 
usually flushed  and  animated  and  perhaps  a  little 
excited,  it  never  occurred  to  Beatrice  that  there 
could  be  any  special  reason  for  this. 

Lady  Metcalfe  came  in  much  later;  she  had 
been  out  to  tea,  and  she  had  seen  several  people 
whose  sayings  and  doings  seemed  to  interest 
Beatrice,  for  she  listened  languidly  as  they  were 
related  to  her.  Peggy  sat  very  silent,  thinking 
over  her  wonderful  afternoon,  glad  to  feel,  too, 
that  the  first  step  had  at  last  been  made.  She 
could  not  think  now  of  the  pain  and  sorrow  that 
lay  before  her,  only  of  the  great  joy  that  was 
already  beginning  to  flood  her  heart.  She  had 
scarcely  begun  to  think  of  what  she  should  do 


228  THE  REST  HOUSE 

when  she  was  poor  and  homeless,  but  like  all 
untrained,  unskilled  women,  she  would  probably 
endeavor  to  get  a  post  as  companion.  She  had 
no  money,  for  her  allowance  had  been  stopped 
immediately  after  her  interview  with  her  father 
last  spring.  It  was  no  longer  considered  advis- 
able to  give  Peggy  any  money  of  her  own  to 
spend.  She  had  a  five-pound  note  locked  away 
somewhere  and  that  was  all  she  had. 

Lady  Metcalfe  had  had  some  surprising  news 
that  day,  which  had  pleased  her  very  much  and 
distracted  her  thoughts  from  Peggy's  doings,  or 
she  would  probably  have  asked  her  if  she  had 
been  with  Beatrice  all  the  afternoon. 

She  had  received  a  letter  from  Hugh  Quentin 
telling  her  that  he  had  arrived  at  Naples  on  his 
homeward  journey  and  that  he  would  be  in  town 
in  about  a  week,  as  he  was  going  to  stay  a  day  or 
two  in  Paris.  He  was  much  better,  he  said,  and 
was  looking  forward  to  being  back  at  home  again. 
When  Peggy  had  gone  out  of  the  room  Lady 
Metcalfe  confided  this  secret  to  Beatrice. 

"I  daresay  Peggy  will  have  him  if  he  asks  her 
again,"  said  Beatrice;  "she  was  so  young  before 
and  I  daresay  it  took  her  by  surprise.  She's  had 
lots  of  time  to  get  used  to  the  idea,  and  it  was 
very  sensible  of  Hugh  to  go  quite  away  like  that 
and  not  hang  about." 

"Peggy  has  certainly  improved  very  much 
since  your  father  spoke  so  seriously  to  her  at 
Easter,"  said  Lady  Metcalfe  musingly.  "He 
told  her  some  very  disagreeable  truths,  but  it  did 
her  a  lot  of  good.  She's  been  very  careful  ever 


THE  REST  HOUSE  229 

since — I  think  she  was  a  little  frightened.  And 
I  do  hope  and  trust  by  this  time  that  that  un- 
fortunate Somersetshire  episode  has  faded  from 
her  mind." 

"I  hope  so,  too,"  said  Beatrice.  "That  man 
has  never  turned  up  again,  has  he?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  Beatrice,  no!"  said  Lady  Met- 
calfe,  with  a  little  shiver  of  horror  at  the  bare 
suggestion. 

"When  Hugh  comes  I  shall  ask  him  to  dinner. 
We  needn't  let  Peggy  know  beforehand — it  will 
take  her  by  surprise.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she 
were  quite  pleased  to  see  him  again,"  said 
Beatrice. 

Hope  triumphed,  too,  in  Lady  Metcalfe's 
heart  and  she  seconded  her  daughter's  suggestion 
warmly.  In  the  few  days  that  followed  Peggy 
was  even  given  a  little  more  liberty,  just  to  show 
her  that  she  had  begun  to  regain  their  confidence. 
Peggy  consequently  spent  as  much  time  as  she 
dared  at  the  Oratory.  She  felt  that  she  would 
be  thankful  when  this  hateful  necessity  for 
secrecy  came  to  an  end.  It  was  necessary  and 
that  was  the  only  thing  that  made  it  tolerable 
to  her. 

The  dinner  party  at  which  Hugh  was  to  be 
present  was  a  very  small,  informal  affair,  as 
Beatrice  was  not  well  enough  to  entertain  large 
parties.  It  consisted  only  of  Lady  Metcalfe; 
Peter  and  Peggy;  Diana,  who  was  passing 
through  town  just  then  on  her  way  from  Scot- 
land; Hugh,  and,  of  course,  Lord  Charsley. 


230  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Peggy  supposed  the  party  was  given  for  Diana, 
who  would  naturally  wish  to  see  them  all.  She 
herself  had  not  seen  her  for  more  than  a  year, 
and  she  was  dressing  when  Diana  came  into  her 
room  to  take  off  her  cloak. 

Lady  Maddinard  was  a  good  deal  changed 
since  her  marriage,  and  she  was  far  more  beauti- 
ful now  than  Beatrice,  but  less  simple-looking. 
It  even  seemed  to  Peggy  that  her  sister  was  a 
trifle  made  up ;  the  pink  color  in  her  cheeks  was 
so  unchanging.  Her  blue  eyes  were  very  bright 
and  her  golden  hair  was  most  fashionably  ar- 
ranged. She  kissed  Peggy  in  rather  a  patroniz- 
ing way. 

"Well,  my  dear  child,  how  are  you?"  she  said, 
and  she  looked  very  attentively  at  Peggy  for  a 
moment. 

Peggy  flushed  a  little  under  the  scrutiny  which 
she  felt  was  not  untouched  by  criticism. 

"I  hear  you  have  been  behaving  very  fool- 
ishly," she  said  in  a  light,  ironic  tone.  "I  very 
nearly  wrote  to  give  you  a  word  of  warning 
myself.  However,  I  am  sure  you  must  see  for 
yourself  how  silly  you  have  been,  and  I  daresay 
you  will  be  more  sensible  in  the  future."  She 
thought  that  a  timely  hint  at  this  juncture  would 
not  be  altogether  out  of  place.  It  was  better  to 
let  Peggy  know  what  was  expected  of  her. 

She  threw  her  beautiful  white  brocaded  coat 
heavily  trimmed  with  white  fur  upon  the  bed 
and  then,  as  Peggy  made  no  reply,  she  said: 

"Silent  as  ever,  Peggy?  When  you  were  little 
we  all  knew  that  meant  you  were  hatching  some 
mischief!  What  are  you  plotting  now,  my  dear?" 


THE  REST  HOUSE  231 

She  took  Peggy  quite  firmly  by  the  shoulders 
and  looked  mockingly  into  her  crimsoning  face. 

"Please  don't,  Diana,"  said  Peggy  desper- 
ately. 

She  felt  as  if  those  bright,  searching  eyes 
would  penetrate  her  secret.  Diana  was  far  the 
most  intelligent  of  all  the  Metcalfes,  and  Peggy 
felt  afraid  of  her.  In  the  old  days  nothing  had 
escaped  her,  and  she  had  often  been  the  means  of 
bringing  Peggy's  childish  guilt  home  to  her. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Diana  cheerfully,  "you 
shall  tell  me  all  about  it  by  and  by!  Let's  go 
down  now — we  are  late  as  it  is." 

She  slid  her  arm  through  Peggy's  and  went 
downstairs  with  her.  When  they  entered  the 
drawing-room  Peggy  saw  with  consternation 
that  Hugh  Quentin  was  there,  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  fire.  He  came  forward  immediately 
and  greeted  her.  Peggy  turned  as  white  as  a 
sheet  and  her  mother  mistook  the  pallor  for  emo- 
tion at  this  sudden  meeting.  She  watched  the 
little  scene  with  approving  eyes.  Oh,  there 
was  no  doubt  that  all  that  discipline  to  which 
Peggy  had  been  subjected  would  bear  good 
fruit  now! 

Hugh  greeted  Peggy  with  nonchalant  ease. 
He  was  changed,  for  he  was  very  thin  and  sun- 
burned and  looked  older,  less  of  a  boy.  Peggy 
did  not  know  what  she  said  to  him,  nor  even 
whether  she  had  said  anything  at  all ;  she  felt  mis- 
erably confused  and  embarrassed  and  Diana's 
words  came  back  to  her  with  a  new  and  terrible 
significance.  She  knew  now  that  there  had  been 
a  plot,  and  that  she  was  the  victim  who  had  walked 


232  THE  REST  HOUSE 

so  unsuspectingly  into  the  trap.  And  the  worst 
of  it  was  the  knowledge  that  they  were  all  doing 
it  as  they  thought  for  her  good  and  to  secure  her 
happiness. 

It  seemed  incredible  to  her  that  her  mother 
should  understand  her  even  now  so  little — should 
be  ready,  indeed,  to  mistake  her  docility  for  a 
sign  that  on  this  point  of  marrying  Hugh  she 
was  going  to  yield  and  obey.  The  surprise  had 
been  successfully  sprung  upon  her,  but  it  only 
awakened  within  Peggy  a  fierce  recrudescence  of 
the  old  rebellion. 

She  consoled  herself  with  the  thought  that 
when  Hugh  knew  of  her  intention  to  become  a 
Catholic  he  would  no  longer  wish  to  marry  her. 
If,  indeed,  it  could  be  possible  that  he  still  wished 
it,  after  her  definite  refusal  of  him  last  spring. 
Perhaps  he  had  only  come  to-night  to  show  her 
how  completely  he  had  recovered  from  that  little 
humiliation.  Then  the  memory  of  Diana's  words 
rudely  dispelled  these  consoling  considerations. 
His  very  presence  seemed  to  assure  her  that  he, 
at  any  rate,  had  been  a  party  to  the  plot,  that  he 
was  at  least  a  willing  if  not  an  eager  adherent 
to  the  Family  Council. 

Yes,  they  were  all  there,  Lady  Metcalfe, 
Peter,  the  Charsleys,  and — Diana.  Seen  thus 
together,  even  if  one  excluded  Peter  (who,  she 
was  quite  sure,  was  innocent  of  any  conspiracy) , 
they  seemed  formidable  in  their  fixed  and  united 
determination  to  make  her  yield.  She  was  to  be 
made  to  see  that  all  paths  were  closed  to  her 
other  than  this  one  which  they  wished  to  compel 
her  to  tread.  She  was  too  young  to  know  what 


THE  REST  HOUSE  233 

was  good  for  her  or  to  be  allowed  to  choose  for 
herself.  There  was  to  be  no  attempt  to  stray 
from  the  beaten  track  of  Metcalfe  prosperity. 
And  thus  united  they  did  seem  to  poor  Peggy 
terribly  strong — almost  invincible  in  their 
strength.  The  net  was  already  round  her  feet; 
she  wondered  if  she  would  ever  have  the  strength 
or  pluck  to  extricate  herself. 

After  dinner  Beatrice  slipped  her  arm  in 
Peggy's  as  they  ascended  to  the  drawing-room 
while  Lady  Metcalfe  sailed  on  ahead  with  Diana. 

"Darling  Peggy,"  she  whispered,  "weren't  you 
most  awfully  surprised  to  see  Hugh  again  ?  He's 
looking  splendid,  isn't  he?  If  I  were  a  young 
girl  and  he  were  in  love  with  me  I  should  feel 
simply  frightfully  proud  of  him!" 

"Why  should  you  be  proud  of  him?"  asked 
Peggy  coldly,  and  surveying  her  sister  with  eyes 
of  sick  misery. 

"To  think  he  loved  me  and  wanted  to  marry 
me!"  said  Beatrice. 

Peggy  was  silent. 

"And  then  it's  so  delicious  to  feel  that  one's 
own  happiness  is  making  so  many  other  people 
happy,"  pursued  Beatrice. 

Still  Peggy  did  not  speak.  The  chain  was 
tightening,  like  a  band  of  cold  iron,  pressing 
against  her  heart. 

She  did  not  speak  till  they  reached  the  landing. 
It  was  furnished  like  a  room,  for  its  width  was 
so  great  that  it  had  almost  the  dimensions  of  a 
small  room.  There  were  chairs  there  and  palms, 
a  beautiful  inlaid  Italian  cabinet,  tables  with 
flowers  and  photographs,  and  a  wonderful 


234  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Chinese  screen  whose  faint  gilding  caught  the 
radiance  from  the  electric  light  that  was  sub- 
dued and  almost  mysterious.  Underfoot  was 
a  thick  Oriental  rug  of  delicate  coloring. 

Lady  Metcalfe  and  Diana  had  gone  on  ahead 
into  the  drawing-room. 

Peggy  said  at  last  almost  fiercely: 
44 Oh,  Beatrice — why  did  you  let  him  come?" 
Beatrice  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  Peggy 
was  standing  there  with  her  hand  resting  on  the 
polished  rim  of  a  little  table  as  if  she  were  seek- 
ing support.    Her  face  was  pale,  but  there  was  a 
strange  brightness,  of  excitement  as  well  as  of 
anger,  in  her  eyes. 

"Why  Peggy,  what  do  you  mean?" 
For  the  first  time  Beatrice's  misgivings  were 
thoroughly  aroused,  and  she  began  to  wonder 
if  Lady  Metcalfe  could  possibly  have  again  mis- 
taken Peggy's  intentions. 

"I  mean — it's  all  useless!  I  don't  feel  in  the 
least  bit  proud  of  Hugh,  and  it's  more  and  more 
impossible  for  me  to  many  him." 

She  almost  flung  the  words  at  her  sister. 
"What  nonsense,  Peggy!"  said  Beatrice,  try- 
ing to  speak  lightly;  "of  course  you're  going  to 
marry  him.  He's  a  dear  and  he's  perfectly  de- 
voted to  you,  and  we  all  know  that  you  have 
regretted  your  hasty  action  last  spring.  Mother 
has  appreciated  the  change  in  you  very  much, 
and  realized  that  it  was  a  tacit  acknowledgment 
on  your  part  that  you  had  been  in  the  wrong 
and  intended  to  behave  differently  in  the  future. 
She  wanted  you  to  have  plenty  of  time  to  think 
it  over,  and  she  told  me  that  she  was  certain  of 


THE  REST  HOUSE  235 

you  now,  and  was  sure  you  were  going  to  be 
sensible  and  obedient.  You  are  too  old  to  in- 
dulge in  childish  dreams  of  romance.  Marriage 
isn't  a  romance,  but  with  a  good  man  who  loves 
you  it  can  bring  you  all  kinds  of  happiness. 
Don't  throw  away  your  chance  of  happiness 
while  you  are  young — you  will  regret  it  after- 
ward. You  must  believe  that  mother — that  all 
of  us — know  best  what  is  good  for  you !" 

Peggy  looked  curiously  at  her  sister  while  she 
made  this  long  speech.  Yes,  Beatrice  was 
happy;  she  was  sure  that  she  would  not  now 
exchange  her  lot  for  any  other  in  the  world.  She 
was  perfectly  satisfied,  and  the  prospect  of  hav- 
ing another  child  filled  her  cup  to  overflowing. 
Yet  far  away  in  the  past  Peggy  had  a  vision  of  a 
girl  weeping  her  very  heart  out  in  the  old  school- 
room at  Mildon  only  the  day  before  her  engage- 
ment to  Lord  Charsley  was  announced. 

Had  she  utterly  forgotten  that  day  of  pas- 
sionate stress?  Had  it  been  relegated  to  the 
shadows  of  childish  dreams  of  romance — insub- 
stantial things  that  had  no  bearing  upon  real  life  ? 

Beatrice  said  rather  inconsequently : 

"Why,  when  I  was  your  age,  Peggy,  Ethne 
was  a  year  old !" 

She  had  always  been  intensely  proud  of  her 
motherhood ;  it  was  the  one  thing  that  mattered. 
She  felt  that  if  a  woman  had  a  good  husband  and 
children  she  need  ask  nothing  more  of  life.  As 
Peggy  made  no  reply  Beatrice  continued: 

"If  you  are  still  thinking  of  that  rather  dread- 
ful young  man  you  were  so  taken  up  with  at  the 
ball  last  winter  I  must  tell  you  it  isn't  the  slight- 


236  THE  REST  HOUSE 

est  use.  In  fact,  I  know  father  told  you  quite 
plainly  you  wouldn't  be  allowed  to  marry  him. 
The  sooner  you  forget  all  about  him  the  better. 
He  doesn't  belong  to  our  world,  and  women  are 
never  really  happy  away  from  their  own  milieu, 
especially  if  they  exchange  it  for  a  lower  plane ! 
Diana  and  I  both  feel  very  strongly  that  if  you 
married  him  we  could  never  receive  you  again. 
Whereas  we  are  both  devoted  to  Hugh,  and  think 
you  a  very  lucky  girl  to  have  such  a  splendid 
fellow  at  your  feet!" 

A  glint  of  anger  showed  in  Peggy's  eyes  at 
this  denigration  of  Morford.  Yet  she  felt  as  if 
those  cruel  words  had  smirched  the  bright  mem- 
ory of  him  a  little. 

"So,  dear  Peggy,  I  know  you  will  think  over 
what  I've  said.  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  distress 
mother  for  all  the  world.  And  you  will  be  grate- 
ful to  us  all  one  of  these  days — for  persuading 
you — for  helping  you.  When  you  are  engaged 
to  Hugh  I  am  sure  he  will  teach  you  to  care. 
It's  lovely  being  engaged,  Peggy." 

But  Peggy  said  in  a  slow,  careful,  final  tone : 

"I  shall  never,  never  be  engaged  to  Hugh.  It 
is  quite  useless  of  you  to  talk  in  this  way  to  me, 
Beatrice." 

She  followed  Beatrice  into  the  drawing-room. 

Beatrice  went  up  to  her  mother  and  said  in  a 
low  voice : 

"I  really  think  you'd  better  say  a  word  to  her. 
She's  in  a  dreadful  mood." 

Diana  glanced  at  Peggy,  who  had  retired  into 
a  distant  corner  of  the  room  and  was  idly  turning 
over  the  pages  of  some  illustrated  papers. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  237 

Lady  Metcalfe  rose  and  crossed  the  room  to 
where  her  daughter  was  sitting. 

"Hugh  wants  to  have  a  few  words  with  you 
after  dinner,  my  dear  Peggy,"  she  said  affection- 
ately. "I  hope  you  will  realize  now  how  im- 
portant it  all  is."  She  lowered  her  voice.  "I 
didn't  care  for  your  manner  to  him  at  dinner. 
Of  course  it's  a  mistake  for  a  girl  to  seem  too 
eager  and  encouraging.  But  there  is  a  medium 
in  all  things." 

Peggy  flushed  under  the  rebuke. 

"No  doubt  you  felt  a  little  embarrassed  at 
meeting  him  again.  Perhaps  we  ought  not  to  have 
taken  you  by  surprise.  But  I  felt  it  would  be 
such  a  pleasant  one  for  you.  Dear  Peggy,  you 
know  what  is  before  you  and  it  isn't  every  girl 
that  gets  a  second  chance,  I  can  tell  you.  I  am 
sure  that  you  are  going  to  make  us  all — Hugh 
included — very  happy.  You  know  what  your 
sisters'  lives  are  like  and  how  happy  they  are. 
That  is  the  kind  of  happiness  every  mother 
wishes  for  her  daughter.  I  am  so  thankful  it  is 
coming  now  to  my  little  Peggy." 

This  speech  seemed  to  give  an  additional  pang 
to  the  pain  Peggy  was  then  enduring.  Her 
mother,  Diana,  Beatrice,  and  perhaps  Hugh  him- 
self, were  all  perfectly  convinced  that  she  was 
going  to  yield  to  their  wishes  and  marry  him.  She 
wondered  drearily  if  it  would  not  be  well  for  her 
peace  to  give  up  those  wild  dreams  and  submit. 

"I  am  glad  to  think  you  have  come  to  under- 
stand at  last  that  we  know  what  is  best  for  you. 
You  see  we  are  older  and  more  experienced  and 
are  better  judges  of  what  is  likely  to  promote 


238  THE  REST  HOUSE 

your  happiness.  I  am  sure  you  will  be  every  bit 
as  happy  as  Diana  and  Beatrice.  Hugh  can  give 
you  everything  in  the  world,  and  you  will  soon 
wonder  that  you  ever  hesitated!" 

Peggy  clasped  her  hands  nervously  together. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  floor.  It  was  im- 
possible for  her  to  speak,  and  Lady  Metcalfe, 
convinced  that  she  was  making  an  impression, 
pursued  contentedly : 

"Hugh  is  more  in  love  with  you  than  ever. 
He  told  me  he  had  never  seen  you  look  so 
beautiful.  You  must  not  let  his  admiration  turn 
your  head,"  she  went  on  playfully;  "you  have 
had  so  little  compared  to  what  your  sisters  always 
received  wherever  they  went!" 

Peggy's  heart  was  waging  a  fierce  conflict 
within  her.  She  had  allowed  herself  to  be  half- 
hypnotized  by  her  mother's  words  until  she  found 
herself  actually  contemplating  the  possibility  of 
marrying  Hugh  and  sacrificing  herself  on  the 
altar  of  their  wishes.  Almost  she  saw  herself 
following  that  line  of  least  resistance  and  placing 
her  life,  her  freedom,  in  Hugh's  hands,  turning 
her  back  forever  upon  those  spiritual  dreams 
which  seemed  now  too  far  off  and  remote  to  be 
reached  by  her  weak  hands.  She  felt  a  passion- 
ate desire  to  secure  the  approbation  of  all  these 
people  who  wished  her  so  well,  and  were  only 
trying  to  coerce  her  for  her  own  benefit.  And  in 
time,  perhaps — not  all  at  once,  of  course,  but 
when  years  should  begin  to  deaden  the  dreams 
that  had  been  left  to  atrophy  slowly  in  her  heart 
—she,  too,  would  taste  the  quiet  domestic  hap- 
piness that  Beatrice  had  found;  she,  too,  would 


THE  REST  HOUSE  239 

look  back  and  wonder  at  her  own  hesitation.  And 
she  would  live  the  life  she  was  accustomed  to 
under  those  familiar  external  conditions  of 
wealth,  comfort,  and  luxury.  There  would  be  no 
going  forth  into  that  loneliness  that  awaited  her 
the  moment  she  became  a  Catholic. 

But  even  as  her  thoughts  traveled  swiftly  like 
restless  birds  over  that  life  that  was  hers  for 
the  taking,  she  realized  the  utter  impossibility 
of  choosing  it.  No  fugitive  vision  of  Morford 
rose  to  confront  her  now,  making  that  proposed 
marriage  impossible,  but  the  fact  that  she  was 
a  Catholic  in  all  but  name.  In  a  few  weeks,  per- 
haps, she  would  have  taken  that  step  which  was 
to  change  her  life  utterly.  Soon,  very  soon,  she 
would  have  sought  and  found  admittance  at  those 
long-closed  doors.  It  would  mean  poverty, 
penury,  the  displeasure  and  bitter  disappoint- 
ment of  her  parents,  a  confusion  of  darkness 
wherein  she  seemed  to  see  herself  wandering 
homeless  and  astray.  It  was  the  loneliness  of  it 
that  frightened  her,  for  she  had  been  always 
guarded  and  sheltered.  Her  very  youth  and  in- 
experience protested  against  such  a  fate,  so  cheer- 
less and  so  forlorn.  The  thought  that  Peter 
would  not  be  there  to  comfort  her  gave  it  an 
added  loneliness  and  terror. 

"So  do  thou  also  learn  to  part  with  the  neces- 
sary and  beloved  friend  for  the  love  of  God" 
Those  words  from  Morford's  little,  worn  copy 
of  the  "Imitation"  flashed  into  her  mind  and 
made  the  path  become  suddenly  clearer.  The 
way  that  had  seemed  suddenly  obscured  by  deep, 
impassable  mists  showed  itself  like  a  little  thread 


240  THE  REST  HOUSE 

of  silver.  If  she  did  not  follow  it — she  who  had 
bravely  put  her  hand  to  the  plow — she  would  be 
false  to  her  own  heart,  to  her  own  soul.  She 
would  have  to  go  through  all  her  life  starved  as 
she  had  been  starved  during  the  past  year. 

"We  have  often  been  very  anxious  about  you, 
Peggy,"  continued  her  mother  in  her  soft,  smooth 
voice;  "y°u  have  such  a  different  temperament. 
We  saw  that  we  could  not  force  you  to  do  any- 
thing against  your  will.  Go  into  the  white  draw- 
ing-room, my  dear  child.  You  will,  I  think,  find 
dear  Hugh  waiting  for  you." 

She  rose  and  then  stooped  down  and  lightly 
kissed  Peggy's  dark  head.  "Dear  little  naughty, 
wilful  Peggy,"  she  murmured  affectionately, 
"what  an  opportunity  you  have  now  of  redeem- 
ing your  old  bad  character.  Don't  keep  Hugh 
waiting,  my  dear  child." 

The  power  of  suggestion  is  one  that  can  not 
be  overlooked,  and  in  the  mentality  of  Lady  Met- 
calf e  it  became  a  sharp  and  useful  weapon.  What 
did  Beatrice  mean  by  saying  Peggy  was  in  a 
dreadful  mood?  Why,,  she  had  never  found  her 
more  tractable.  During  the  whole  of  that  inter- 
view, which  she  herself  had  found  so  strenuous 
and  exhausting,  Peggy  had  not  said  a  single 
word.  She  had  listened  to  her  with  the  most 
perfect  filial  respect.  There  was  no  doubt  that 
Peggy  had  become  quite  reasonable  and  that  to- 
morrow they  would  be  able  to  announce  her  en- 
gagement to  Hugh  Quentin. 

"I  don't  think  we  had  better  risk  a  long  en- 
gagement," thought  Lady  Metcalfe;  "in  fact, 


THE  REST  HOUSE  241 

under  the  circumstances  the  shorter  it  is  the 
better.  Perhaps  the  first  week  in  December — I 
am  sure  I  can  get  all  she  requires  in  a  month. 
Oh,  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  delay  the  marriage — 
it  isn't  as  if  one  could  ever  feel  quite,  quite  sure  of 
darling  Peggy  1" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

PEGGY  rose  quite  meekly  and  went  into  the 
white  drawing-room.  True  to  her  mother's 
expectations,  she  found  Hugh  standing  there,  his 
feet  in  their  polished  shoes  firmly  set  upon  the 
white  hearth-rug.  He  had  just  lit  a  cigarette. 
The  aroma  greeted  Peggy's  nostrils  as  she  en- 
tered the  room  and  she  felt  suddenly  an  un- 
reasonable hatred  of  it. 

The  windows  of  the  white  drawing-room 
looked  onto  the  street,  and  she  could  hear  the 
rumble  of  the  traffic  as  it  passed  down  Portman 
Square. 

"I  have  come.  Mother  said  you  were  here," 
said  Peggy  simply. 

She  could  see  that  Hugh  was  feeling  embar- 
rassed too ;  he  was  not  quite  at  his  ease.  A  little 
cinder  fell  from  the  end  of  his  cigarette  upon 
the  rug.  He  put  his  foot  on  it  at  once,  but  there 
was  a  faint  smell  of  burning  and  a  tiny  brown 
mark  showed  on  the  rug. 

Then  he  went  across  the  room  and  shut  the 
door  which  Peggy  had  left  open. 

''They  did  not  tell  you  that  I  was  coming 
to-night?"  said  Hugh  at  last,  looking  down  upon 
Peggy,  who  was  sitting  on  a  low  chair  by  the 
fire. 

"No,"  she  answered. 

Yes,  she  would  be  quite  frank  with  him — she 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  that.  She  would  tell 
him  what  she  meant  to  do.  That  would  surely 

242 


THE  REST  HOUSE  243 

put  a  stop  to  his  wish  to  marry  her.  Even  if  he 
told  her  mother  about  it  and  an  effort  was  made 
to  restrain  her  from  becoming  a  Catholic,  that, 
too,  must  be  risked. 

"I  went  away  because  I  could  not  bear  to  be 
in  England  and  never  see  you,  Peggy,"  said 
Hugh  at  last.  "But  they  tell  me  you  have 
changed — that  last  spring  you  did  not  know  your 
own  mind.  That  gives  me  hope,  although  when 
I  last  saw  you  you  did  not  leave  me  much  room 
for  hope.  I  love  you,  and  I  want  you  to  be  my 
wife.  It  has  been  horrible  to  me — this  long  sep- 
aration— this  uncertainty." 

"Hugh,"  she  said  desperately,  "I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  you." 

"Whatever  it  is  it  can  make  no  difference  to 
my  love  for  you,"  he  assured  her. 

"When  you  have  heard  it  you  will  not  perhaps 
care  for  me  any  more,"  said  Peggy. 

Hugh  was  quick  to  take  alarm.  Had  any  one 
else  entered  Peggy's  life  during  his  months  of 
absence,  stirring  that  untried  heart  to  love?  But 
no — it  was  impossible.  Lady  Metcalfe  had  as- 
sured him  that  Peggy  had  spent  all  those  months 
in  quiet  and  seclusion;  until  this  visit  to  London 
she  had  not  once  left  Mildon.  Her  father  had 
wished  it  to  be  so.  There  could  have  been  no 
opportunity  for  her  to  see  and  fall  in  love  with 
another  man. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  it  is?"  he  said. 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  become  a  Cath- 
olic," she  said  at  last.  "I  have  not  told  mother 
yet — I  am  sure  she  believes  that  I  have  given 
up  thinking  of  it.  I  felt  sometimes  that  was  why 


244  THE  REST  HOUSE 

they  would  not  let  me  leave  Mildon — why  they 
have  been  keeping  such  a  watch  upon  me.  I  have 
had  no  freedom  at  all.  I  was  not  even  allowed  to 
go  and  stay  with  my  sisters."  She  stopped  short. 
There  was  a  strange  expression  upon  Hugh's 
face  of  horror  as  well  as  of  surprise. 

"A  Catholic?  What  on  earth  for?"  he  ex- 
claimed at  last.  "Who's  been  getting  at  you?" 

His  eyes  searched  her  face,  and  suddenly  his 
features  stiffened  and  seemed  to  grow  hard. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  said  roughly,  "that  weird 
chap  Morford  was  one,  I  remember." 

Peggy's  face  was  a  shade  paler.  At  the  men- 
tion of  Morford — and  no  one  seemed  able  to 
leave  his  name  out  of  the  matter — she  felt  a  pang 
of  physical  pain  as  if  a  sword  had  touched  her. 

"Is  it  his  doing?"  demanded  Hugh. 

Had  the  man  come  back — in  spite  of  all  their 
precautions — in  spite,  too,  of  that  vigilant  guard- 
ing of  their  young  daughter? 

"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  him,"  said  Peggy 
in  a  voice  that  struggled  unsuccessfully  to  be 
steady  and  controlled.  "I  have  never  seen  him 
again.  It  is  most  unlikely  now  that  I  ever  shall." 

"And  your  father  does  not  know?" 

"I  have  not  told  him  yet  that  my  mind  is  quite 
made  up.  It  will  be  very  difficult — he  has  violent 
prejudices.  He  told  me  once  that  if  I  ever  be- 
came a  Catholic  he  would  not  let  me  go  on  living 
in  his  house — that  he  would  not  give  me  any 
money." 

She  spoke  tranquilly,  and  Hugh  saw  that  she 
did  not  in  the  least  realize  what  those  things 
would  mean  when  put  into  stern  practice. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  245 

"I  should  hope  you  were  not  going  to  be  so 
silly  as  to  risk  that,  then,"  said  Hugh  with  rising 
impatience. 

It  was  quite  true  what  her  mother  had  con- 
stantly said  of  her — Peggy  was  extraordinarily 
unformed  for  her  years.  He  felt  impatient  with 
her  as  one  is  impatient  with  an  obstinate  child. 
He  did  not  love  her  any  the  less — there  was 
something  charming  to  him  about  that  childlike 
innocence  of  hers,  but  he  did  long  quite  savagely 
to  take  her  out  of  harm's  way — to  make  her  his 
own  and  shield  her  from  wilfully  exposing  her- 
self to  such  tragic  happenings. 

"I  am  going  to  risk  it,"  said  Peggy  tranquilly. 

She  was  now  by  far  the  more  composed  of  the 
two ;  indeed,  it  increased  her  own  calm  to  witness 
Hugh's  perturbation  and  anger. 

For  a  few  minutes  there  was  silence.  He  was 
reflecting  upon  her  words  that  had  held  so  much 
decision,  so  much  firmness  of  purpose.  He  was 
a  rich  man,  and  the  thought  of  Peggy's  fortune 
had  always  been  with  him  a  secondary  consid- 
eration; he  had  often  assured  himself  that  he 
would  have  wished  to  marry  her  just  the  same 
if  she  had  not  had  a  farthing.  But  he  knew  very 
little  of  Catholics;  they  had  always  seemed  to 
him  a  race  apart,  surrounded  with  disadvan- 
tages, and  he  did  not  at  all  wish  his  wife  to  be 
one.  And  there  was  surely  no  reason  on  earth 
for  her  to  become  one — to  take  upon  herself 
those  disadvantages.  Besides  all  this,  it  came 
into  his  mind  that  in  becoming  a  Catholic  Peggy 
would  give  a  proof  of  her  submission  to  the  in- 
sidious influence  of  Morford.  He  was  certain 


246  THE  REST  HOUSE 

that  it  was  Morford's  work,  and  as  such  he  was 
prepared  to  combat  it. 

"So  you  see  that  I  couldn't  marry  you  now  in 
any  case,"  Peggy  was  saying.  "I  couldn't  make 
the  two  lives  fit  together.  I — I  have  asked 
Father  FitzGerald  about  it,  because  my  mother  is 
so  anxious  that  you  and  I  should  be  married.  I 
told  him,"  and  now  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  in 
perfect  frankness,  "that  I  didn't  care  for  you 
as  I  am  sure  a  woman  ought  to  care  for  the  man 
she  marries.  He  said  he  should  never  advise  a 
mixed  marriage  in  the  case  of  a  young  convert — 
that  it  might  even  mean  my  perseverance  might 
be  tried  too  much — that  even  if  I  had  loved  you 
it  would  still  have  been  a  risk." 

"Who  is  this  man  who  has  dared  to  advise  you 
in  this  way?"  demanded  Hugh  fiercely. 

"He  is  a  priest — a  Catholic  priest,"  said 
Peggy. 

"You  would  never  have  thought  of  this  if  you 
had  not  met  Morford.  It  is  all  his  doing!"  cried 
Hugh. 

Once  he  had  felt  a  violent,  unreasoning  jeal- 
ousy of  Morford  when  he  had  seen  him  with 
Peggy,  and  now  that  jealousy  surged  back  to 
his  heart  like  a  dark  flood,  chilling  and  wound- 
ing it. 

"You  are  not  telling  me  the  real  truth,"  he 
went  on.  "I  told  you  once  before  and  I  repeat 
it  now — you  are  in  love  with  this  man.  And 
now  you  intend  to  give  him  a  final  and  open 
proof  of  your  love  by  joining  the  Church  to 
which  he  belongs.  But  do  you  think  he  will  care 
for  you  any  more  when  he  finds  you  have  lost 
your  fortune?  He  has  not  got  a  farthing  in  the 


THE  REST  HOUSE  247 

world,  and  your  fortune  must  have  been  an  im- 
mense attraction  to  him.  You  will  find,  how- 
ever, that  you  have  fallen  between  two  stools — 
you  will  have  cut  the  ground  from  under  your 
feet.  You  father  will  never  forgive  you  for  dis- 
obeying him,  and  as  for  Morford,  do  you  sup- 
pose he  will  care  what  becomes  of  you  when  you 
are  turned  out  of  your  home  without  a  penny? 
You  will  find  what  his  love  is  worth  then." 

He  spoke  harshly.  Could  she  not  see  these 
facts  for  herself?  Was  she  so  blinded  by  her 
desire  to  please  Morford  that  she  would  risk  all 
she  possessed  for  this  one  end? 

"My  becoming  a  Catholic  has  nothing  to  do 
with  Mr.  Morford,"  Peggy  repeated;  "it  is  true 
that  my  conversion  dates  from  the  night  I  spent 
at  the  Rest  House.  Otherwise  it  has  nothing  to 
do  with  him — nothing — nothing!" 

"I  simply  don't  believe  you!"  said  Hugh. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Peggy  sat  there,  mo- 
tionless and  still  as  a  statue.  Her  little  white 
figure  seemed  to  detach  itself  from  the  surround- 
ing whiteness  in  a  manner  that  no  contrast  of 
color  could  have  more  perfectly  achieved. 

"You  say  your  father  has  threatened  to  send 
you  away  in  disgrace  if  you  disobey  him.  He 
is  a  hard  man,  Peggy,  and  if  he  does  this  you 
will  be  alone  and  poor  and  you  will  suffer  hor- 
ribly. How  will  you  earn  your  own  living?  You 
have  lived  in  luxury  all  your  life — you  have  never 
been  taught  to  do  anything  that  is  likely  to  help 
you  then.  It  is  a  madness  you  would  very  soon 
regret.  And  it  will  not  bring  you  any  nearer 
to  Morford — if  that  is  what  you  are  thinking  of!" 

It  was  an  effort  always  to  him  to  mention 


248  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Morford's  name;  it  stirred  within  him  that  un- 
worthy, savage,  primitive  instinct  of  jealousy. 
He  had  always  looked  upon  himself  as  an  ex- 
tremely civilized  man,  and  he  disliked  to  discover 
this  primitive  passion  in  his  own  heart — aroused, 
too,  by  a  man  he  considered  his  own  social  in- 
ferior. What  could  Peggy  see  in  this — this 
bounder?  Of  course  she  was  in  love  with  him! 
That  explained  everything  that  even  her  own 
people  failed  to  understand  about  her.  This  talk 
of  religion  was  a  mere  blind.  A  man  had  been 
from  first  to  last  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  busi- 
ness, and  her  own  strenuous  denial  did  not  affect 
the  point  at  all. 

His  words  stirred  her  pride ;  she  longed  to  de- 
fend Morford  from  the  accusation  of  fortune - 
hunting.  But  she  only  repeated  slowly  and  with 
deliberate  emphasis: 

"I  tell  you  Mr.  Morford  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it  at  all.  I  am  going  to  become  a  Catholic 
because  I  must." 

"Must!  Why  must  you?"  he  said.  His  im- 
patience was  increased  by  that  stubborn  ob- 
stinacy of  hers;  he  still  believed  that  all  these 
symptoms  of  religious  caprice  were  the  outcome 
of  Morford's  influence.  No  doubt  the  man  was 
too  much  of  a  fanatic  to  dream  of  marrying  a 
Protestant,  and  he  had  snatched  the  opportunity 
given  of  making  love  to  a  girl  whose  father  was 
reputed  to  be  fabulously  rich,  while  he  tried  to 
make  her  believe  that  it  was  only  her  conversion 
he  desired.  Again  Hugh  longed  to  carry  her 
away  in  safety  before  she  could  actually  commit 
this  mad  act.  "Why  can't  you  be  satisfied  as 


THE  REST  HOUSE  249 

your  sisters  are  with  your  own  religion?  Do  you 
think  you  know  better  than  your  parents?" 

"Oh,  Hugh,  please  don't.  I  really  can't  ex- 
plain, and  if  I  did  you  wouldn't  understand  me. 
Do  you  think  the  prospect  of  being  poor  and 
homeless  is  a  very  pleasant  one  to  me?  You 
know  my  father  well  enough  to  know  that  when 
he  says  a  thing  like  that  he  means  it.  As  soon  as 
he  knows  he  will  send  me  away." 

"This  is  folly  1  This  is  madness!"  said  Hugh. 
"You  are  far  too  young  to  take  your  life  into 
your  own  hands  in  this  way !  Ask  Peter — ask  any 
one!  You  will  only  be  sorry  when  it  is  too  late. 
Your  parents,  as  you  have  just  said,  wish  for 
our  marriage.  I  have  their  full  permission  to 
make  you  my  wife.  It  has  been  my  one  dream 
for  a  whole  year.  You  say  that  you  do  not  care 
for  me — as  a  wife  should  care  for  her  husband. 
Believe  me,  Peggy,  that  love  will  come — I  will 
teach  you  to  care  for  me.  I  want  you  to  put 
aside  all  this  madness  and  forgive  the  hard  things 
I  have  said  to  you  in  my  anger  to-night.  And 
perhaps  later  on — if  you  still  wished  it — we  could 
see  about  your  becoming  a  Catholic." 

"I  am  sorry,  Hugh.  I  don't  love  you  and  I 
can't  marry  you.  But  I  did  hope  perhaps  that 
when  you  knew  you  wouldn't  care  any  more." 

There  was  something  so  naive  and  childlike 
in  this  speech  that  it  wrung  a  little  smile  from 
Hugh  in  the  midst  of  his  own  misery. 

"Did  you  think  as  little  of  my  love  as  all  that?" 
he  asked,  and  he  stood  there  looking  with  shining 
eyes  at  Peggy,  trying  to  understand  her  and  fail- 
ing completely  in  the  effort.  "Do  you  under- 


250  THE  REST  HOUSE 

stand  nothing,  then,  of  what  my  love  means?  Do 
you  think  it  could  perish  as  quickly  as  all  that?" 
he  sharply  demanded.  "Catholic  or  not,  I  shall 
always  care  for  you.  If  you  become  a  Catholic 
I  am  still  ready  to  marry  you."  He  had  not  been 
so  sure  of  this  a  few  minutes  ago,  but  as  Peggy 
became  more  and  more  remote  and  out  of  his 
reach  he  felt  he  would  be  ready  to  make  any  sac- 
rifice to  try  to  win  her.  "Of  course  I  would  a  thou- 
sand times  rather  you  remained  a  Protestant.  It 
makes  all  kinds  of  odious  complications  when 
husband  and  wife  are  of  different  creeds.  And 
there  isn't  a  Catholic  church  within  miles  of 
Westcombe !  Oh,  Peggy,  let  me  entreat  you  not 
to  take  this  step !  Wait  a  year  or  two  longer  to 
convince  yourself  that  it  is  necessary.  You 
really  oughtn't  to  disregard  the  wishes  of  your 
people.  It'll  be  most  awfully  wrong  of  you,  and 
you  are  sure  to  regret  it  sooner  or  later.  Forget 
it,  my  darling,  and  forget  this  man  who  has  used 
his  influence  so  unscrupulously  to  persuade  you!" 
There  was  warmth  and  fire  in  his  pleading  now, 
and  as  he  spoke  he  came  over  to  where  she  was 
sitting,  took  her  hand  in  his  and  bent  a  little 
toward  her. 

But  Peggy  freed  herself  quietly  from  his  grasp 
and  rising,  stood  facing  him. 

"I  have  chosen,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "and 
I  can  only  assure  you  that  no  one  has  persuaded 
or  influenced  me.  I  am  following  my  own  con- 
science; I  am  doing  what  my  heart  tells  me  is 
right  for  me.  I  can  see  without  your  telling  me 
that  it  would  be  far  better  for  my  temporal  hap- 
piness to  remain  where  I  am.  I  daresay,"  and 


THE  REST  HOUSE  251 

now  her  voice  trembled  a  little,  "there  will  come 
moments  when  my  perseverance  will  be  greatly 
tried.  Father  FitzGerald  has  warned  me  that 
this  may  be  the  case.  I  have  never  known  what 
it  is  to  be  cold  and  hungry — my  body  is  not 
accustomed  to  any  privations  at  all."  She  held 
her  head  proudly.  "I  know  there  will  be  temp- 
tations for  me,  but  I  do  not  yet  know  how  hard 
they  may  be.  But  I  shall  pray  for  strength." 

There  was  a  nobility  about  her  now  which  he 
felt  he  was  observing  for  the  first  time.  And  he 
was  aware  that  this  resolve  of  hers  was  uncpn- 
querable.  She  saw  all  that  it  meant  for  her  of 
hardship  in  the  future,  and  if  she  did  not  realize 
all  the  details,  she  saw  at  least  that  there  lay 
before  her  a  period  of  suffering,  of  trial.  And 
the  fragility  of  her !  The  thought  of  her  suffer- 
ing touched  him  to  the  quick.  Yet  through  it  all 
he  saw  how  little  he  knew  of  that  beloved  heart  he 
had  believed  so  confidently  he  was  going  to  win. 

"Shall  you  tell  j^our  people  soon?"  he  asked. 
"It  seems  to  me  that  they  ought  to  know." 

"I  shall  tell  them  nearer  the  time,"  said  Peggy. 
"Although  I  dread  doing  it,  I  long  to  tell  them. 
They  will  think  as  you  have  thought,  I  know. 
They  will  believe  that  Mr.  Morford  has  urged 
me — persuaded  me.  I  do  not  expect  they  will 
believe  me  any  more  than  you  have  believed  me." 

"No — I  don't  suppose  they  will,"  said  Hugh. 

He  felt  that  he  was  looking  at  a  new  Peggy, 
one  with  different  ideals,  different  standards 
from  the  one  he  had  known  and  loved.  But  she 
was  much  dearer  to  him  now,  and  his  heart  ached 
to  think  of  all  that  lay  before  her  if  she  perpe- 


252  THE  REST  HOUSE 

trated  this  supreme  folly.  She  was  very  delicate 
and  it  was  possible  that  her  very  health  might 
suffer.  She  was  the  last  person  to  make  her  own 
way  in  the  world.  Even  strong  men  had  been 
known  to  starve  in  the  effort.  And  there  was 
something  peculiarly  weak  and  incompetent 
about  Peggy.  Diana  in  such  circumstances 
might  have  achieved  wealth  and  fame!  But 
Peggy  .  .  .  His  heart  sank  afresh  as  he  looked 
at  her. 

"Shall  we  go  back  to  the  others  now?"  said 
Peggy. 

He  followed  her  back  into  the  drawing-room. 
Perhaps  Lady  Metcalfe  and  her  daughters  had 
wondered  a  little  at  the  protracted  nature  of 
the  interview,  and  had  put  a  wholly  wrong  inter- 
pretation upon  it. 

Not  much  could  be  gathered  from  the  two 
faces  that  confronted  them.  Hugh's  was  grimly 
set;  he  scarcely  smiled  as  he  bade  Lady  Met- 
calfe good-night  and  shook  hands  with  her  two 
daughters.  Peter  accompanied  him  downstairs, 
but  he  did  not  even  attempt  to  make  any  state- 
ment to  Peter.  Peggy  could  tell  them  just  as 
much  or  as  little  as  she  chose.  After  all,  nothing 
could  mitigate  the  fact  that  he  had  made  a  second 
endeavor  to  win  her,  and  he  had  failed  even  more 
completely  than  he  had  done  that  first  time.  Her 
mind  was  wholly  occupied  with  other  thoughts, 
and  whither  these  would  lead  her  he  could  not 
tell.  He  only  felt  amid  the  general  confusion 
and  pain  that  they  would  inevitably  lead  her  fur- 
ther and  further  away  from  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

PEGGY  went  up  to  her  room  that  night  without 
having  vouchsafed  any  information  about 
her  interview  with  Hugh.  She  had  said  good- 
night and  left  them  all  almost  immediately  after 
Hugh  had  taken  his  departure.  She  was  feeling 
utterly  exhausted  with  all  the  emotions  of  the 
evening,  and  she  was  beginning  to  see  that  she 
would  not  be  able  to  keep  her  mother  in  ignorance 
of  her  intentions  much  longer.  The  moment  for 
revealing  them  was  fast  approaching,  and  the 
crisis  of  this  evening's  happenings  would  cer- 
tainly hasten  it. 

Nor  did  Lady  Metcalfe  disturb  her  that  night. 
No  one  came  to  her  room,  a  fact  for  which  she 
felt  she  could  never  be  sufficiently  thankful.  She 
had  been  afraid  that  her  mother  would  come  to 
learn  the  details  of  her  long  conversation  with 
Hugh  Quentin. 

Early  in  the  morning  when  the  maid  brought 
her  tea  a  little  note  from  Lady  Metcalfe  was 
sent  up  to  her  room.  "Come  to  my  room  as  soon 
as  you  are  dressed.  I  wish  to  see  you  most  par- 
ticularly. J.  M."  That  was  all,  but  as  Peggy 
rose  and  dressed  herself  as  quickly  as  she  could, 
she  knew  in  her  heart  she  could  not  again  leave 
her  mother's  room  until  she  had  told  her  every- 
thing. 

She  put  on  a  little  gray  dress  and  went  down 
with  firm  footsteps  to  Lady  Metcalfe's  room. 
Her  mother  was  still  in  bed  and  was  reading  the 

253 


254  THE  REST  HOUSE 

letters  and  newspapers  that  had  just  been 
brought  to  her.  She  looked  curiously  at  Peggy 
as  she  came  quietly  into  the  room.  How  well 
that  dress  became  her — it  was  just  the  shade  of 
gray  that  was  becoming  to  dark  pale  people. 

"Well,  Peggy.  Good-morning,"  she  said 
brightly. 

Peggy  stooped  and  kissed  her  mother's  fore- 
head. 

"Good-morning,  mother,"  she  said. 

She  felt  as  if  she  had  already  begun  to  walk 
stumblingly  and  blindly  along  that  destined  path 
whose  sharp  stones  were  even  now  beginning  to 
wound  her  feet.  Was  she  strong  enough? 
Would  it  not  be  better  and  wiser  to  follow 
Hugh's  advice  and  give  up  the  idea  that  seemed 
to  him  so  mad  ?  Hugh  had  taught  her  last  night 
to  envisage  her  future  position  with  absolute 
clearness.  She  would  find  herself  in  a  desperate 
position,  and  she  would  wound  the  feelings  of 
all  those  who  were  near  and  dear  to  her. 

"I  want  to  know  what  passed  between  you  and 
Hugh  last  night,"  said  Lady  Metcalfe. 

"I  think  it  would  have  been  kinder  if  you  had 
warned  me  I  was  going  to  see  him  again,"  said 
Peggy  in  a  low  voice.  "I  should  have  told  you 
that  I  had  not  changed.  He  asked  me  to  be  his 
wife — he  was  angry  when  I  refused.  But  I  have 
tried  to  make  it  quite  clear  now  that  I  can  never 
care  for  him  in  that  way." 

Lady  Metcalfe  looked  at  her  daughter  in 
angry  astonishment.  She  was  about  to  speak 
when  Peggy  resumed  quietly: 

"I  told  him  that  I  meant  to  become  a  Cath- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  255 

olic,"  she  said.  "Mother,  I  have  waited  until  I 
was  twenty-one,  and  now  I  dare  not  put  it  off 
any  longer.  I  have  had  a  whole  year  to  think 
about  it.  I  am  sorry  to  seem  undutiful." 

"Peggy — you  can  not  mean  it!"  cried  Lady 
Metcalfe.  "You  know  what  your  father  said. 
He  will  never  have  you  in  the  house  again — you 
will  ruin  your  life  and  your  future — and  you 
will  break  my  heart!" 

Confronted  by  the  prospect  of  this  dire  calam- 
ity, Lady  Metcalfe  burst  into  tears.  She  was  less 
angry  with  her  daughter  than  appalled  by  the 
threatened  scandal.  What  would  people  say  of 
a  girl  who  was  capable  of  committing  an  action 
that  should  compel  her  own  father  to  such  ex- 
tremes of  severity  and  harshness? 

"It  is  very  wicked  of  you,  Peggy,  to  threaten 
to  bring  all  this  misery  upon  us,"  she  sobbed; 
"we  have  always  been  so  blessed — so  happy  in 
all  our  children.  We  have  always  congratulated 
ourselves  upon  the  fact  that  we  had  loving  and 
dutiful  children  who  appreciated  all  we  had  done 
for  them.  None  of  the  others  has  rebelled  and 
disobeyed  us.  Oh,  I  am  sure  you  can  not  really 
mean  it.  You  could  not  bring  this  dreadful  dis- 
aster upon  us.  I  shall  take  you  home  this  after- 
noon and  tell  your  father  he  must  speak  to  you 
again.  He  will  show  you  better  than  I  can  how 
wrong  and  wicked  you  are  even  to  contemplate 
becoming  a  Roman  Catholic!" 

"I  can't  go  home  to-day,"  said  Peggy.  "I 
am  going  to  be  received  very  soon,  and  perhaps 
I  shall  never  go  home  again.  Oh,  mother — you 
don't  know  anything  about  the  Catholic  Church 


256  THE  REST  HOUSE 

— how  holy  and  beautiful  it  is."  She  came  over 
to  the  bedside  and  knelt  down  near  her  mother. 
"You  must  forgive  me.  I  shall  need  your  for- 
giveness," she  said ;  "it  is  something  that  I  must 
do — something  that  has  been  too  strong  for  me. 
I  can  not  turn  back  now." 

Lady  Metcalfe  looked  at  Peggy  with  eyes 
that  were  still  full  of  tears.  She  had  always 
been  just  a  little  less  fond  of  her  than  of  her 
other  children,  and  she  had  found  her  much  more 
difficult  to  deal  with  than  the  others,  and  per- 
haps she  had  not  always  understood  her  very 
well.  But  she  had  been  conscious  especially  of 
late  of  some  depth  and  power  in  Peggy  that  none 
of  the  others  had  seemed  to  possess.  One  could 
never  force  her  into  the  same  groove,  the  same 
routine  as  her  sisters.  Gentle  and  pliable  as  she 
had  seemed  in  these  past  months,  she  now  gave 
evidence  of  her  own  right  to  rule  her  life;  she 
was  as  far  as  ever  from  submitting  to  their  will. 
She  could  not  be  forced  into  a  marriage  that  was 
distasteful  to  her,  as  Beatrice  had  been  forced. 
And  with  this  same  determined  obstinacy  she  had 
set  her  heart  upon  becoming  a  Catholic. 

There  was  something  delicate  and  rather 
fragile  about  Peggy's  appearance  which  did  not 
at  all  correspond  to  the  strength  of  purpose,  the 
courage,  she  was  now  displaying.  She  was  de- 
termined to  possess  those  things  that  seemed 
good  in  her  eyes,  she  was  ready  even  to  pay  a  high 
price  for  them;  she  was  prepared  to  sacrifice 
home  and  parents  and  friends  in  the  attainment 
of  them. 

"Did  not  Hugh  say  anything  to  try  to  deter 


THE  REST  HOUSE  257 

you?"  Lady  Metcalfe  said,  the  tears  flowing 
afresh  as  she  considered  the  matter  in  all  its  ap- 
palling possibilities. 

"He  said  a  very  great  deal,"  said  Peggy,  "he 
even  said  that  he  was  ready  to  marry  me  if  I 
became  a  Catholic." 

"And  you  still  refused  him?  You  thought 
nothing  of  the  great  sacrifices  he  would  have  to 
make?" 

"I  have  never  cared  for  Hugh  as  I  am  sure 
one  ought  to  care  for  the  person  one  marries," 
said  Peggy  tranquilly. 

"Lots  of  girls  only  learn  to  care  afterward. 
Look  at  Beatrice  and  how  happy  she  is  now  with 
her  little  children." 

"Yes,  but  I  am  not  like  Beatrice,"  said  Peggy. 

"If  you  had  married  Hugh  you  would  at  least 
have  been  provided  for,  even  if  your  father  still 
refused  to  make  a  settlement.  That  would  have 
been  a  thousand  times  better  than  that  you 
should  be  sent  away  in  disgrace — perhaps  to 
starve.  Oh,  you  are  cruel  and  callous,  Peggy. 
You  don't  seem  to  care  at  all  that  you  are  break- 
ing my  heart.  Do  you  suppose  your  mother 
wishes  to  see  you  turned  out  of  your  home  like 
this?"  Don't  you  realize  that  I  shall  suffer 
very  much?" 

"I  am  sorry,  mother,"  said  Peggy  patiently, 
"I  am  very  sorry." 

"It  will  be  such  a  terrible  scandal,"  moaned 
Lady  Metcalfe,  "of  course  most  people  will  see 
our  point  of  view  and  not  blame  us  for  our  harsh- 
ness— they  will  recognize  that  it  was  the  only 
thing  to  be  done.  But  others  will  blame  us  very 


258  THE  REST  HOUSE 

much  for  sending  our  own  daughter  away.  It 
is  not  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  do  if  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  and  you  are  very  young  and  ignorant, 
Peggy,  and  there  is  no  one  I  can  ask  to  look  after 
you."* 

There  was  very  genuine  concern  for  Peggy  in 
her  heart;  her  maternal  feelings  were  strongly 
touched;  at  that  prospect  of  parting,  so  inevit- 
able yet  so  forlorn,  she  seemed  to  forget  her 
anger  and  to  love  Peggy  more  than  she  had  ever 
done  before.  For  after  all  Peggy  was  her  own 
child. 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  manage  all  right,"  said 
Peggy,  bravely.  "And  no  one  will  blame  you 
for  doing  what  you  think  to  be  right."  She 
made  a  movement  as  if  to  go  toward  the  door. 

"You  must  go  and  tell  Beatrice  to  come  to 
me,"  said  Lady  Metcalfe;  "I  must  see  Beatrice 
at  once.  You  had  better  tell  Valerie  to  pack 
your  things,  Peggy,  for  I  shall  certainly  take 
you  home  to-day." 

Peggy  went  quietly  away  and  knocked  at  her 
sister's  door.  She  did  not  go  in,  in  response  to 
Beatrice's  answer,  but  contented  herself  with 
saying,  in  a  slightly  raised  voice.  "Mother 
wants  you  to  go  to  her  room  when  you  are 
dressed,  please."  She  could  hear  the  children's 
voices  in  Beatrice's  room ;  they  always  assembled 
there  in  the  morning  to  see  their  mother  and  say 
their  prayers. 

Beatrice  was  extremely  anxious — not  to  say 
curious — to  know  why  her  mother  wished  to  see 
her.  She  felt  certain  that  it  concerned  Peggy, 
so  she  rang  the  bell  for  the  nurse  and  sent  the 


THE  REST  HOUSE  259 

children  away  sooner  than  usual.  Then  she 
slipped  on  a  wrapper  of  pale  blue  silk  and  ran 
down  the  passage  to  her  mother's  room. 

She  rightly  surmised  that  her  mother  wished 
to  acquaint  her  with  the  latest  developments  of 
a  situation  that  had  seemed  on  the  face  of  it  so 
promising. 

When  she  had  listened  to  Lady  Metcalf  e's  agi- 
tated delineation  of  Peggy's  untoward  and  un- 
expected behavior,  she  exclaimed  angrily : 

"Of  course  it  is  this  man  Morford!  I  have  al- 
ways felt  convinced  that  she  had  some  one  else  in 
her  mind.  And  she  probably  thinks  if  she  be- 
comes a  Catholic  it  will  force  him  to  come  for- 
ward and  declare  himself!" 

This  explanation  had  not  occurred  to  Lady 
Metcalfe.  Unless  Peggy  had  come  across  Mor- 
ford during  the  last  few  days  in  London,  when  a 
larger  liberty  had  been  accorded  to  her,  there 
could  have  been  absolutely  no  opportunity  of 
their  meeting.  The  thought  that  Morford  could 
have  had  anything  to  do  with  these  later  develop- 
ments had  never  presented  itself  to  her  as  it 
had  done  to  Hugh  and  now  to  Beatrice. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Beatrice,  I  am  sure,  however  tire- 
some Peggy  may  be,  she  could  not  possibly  wish 
to  marry  that  dreadful  young  man!"  she  said. 

"I  believe  that  Mrs.  Dalton  is  trying  to  make 
a  match  between  him  and  her  second  girl 
Bridget,"  said  Beatrice.  "But  then  Catholics 
have  so  little  choice — they  are  obliged  to  let  their 
girls  make  these  queer  marriages,  especially 
when  they  are  too  bigoted  to  let  them  marry 
Protestants!  Well,  we  can  always  console  our- 


260  THE  REST  HOUSE 

selves  that  we  have  done  our  very  best  for  Peggy, 
and  it  will  not  be  our  fault  if  she  comes  to  the 
most  awful  grief.  Peggy  is  perfectly  hopeless 
and  you  will  never  get  her  to  behave  in  a  rational 
way." 

"I  mean  to  take  her  home  at  once,"  sobbed 
Lady  Metcalfe,  "and  then  her  father  can  talk 
to  her  again.  I  am  sorry  for  her,  but  there  really 
is  nothing  else  to  be  done.  He  is  the  only  person 
she  will  ever  listen  to.  Perhaps  even  now  it  is  not 
too  late  to  get  her  to  behave  reasonably." 

"I  think  it  would  be  much  better  to  leave  her 
here  for  a  few  days  longer,"  said  Beatrice,  "and 
let  us  see  what  we  can  do  with  her.  I  will  get 
Diana  to  come,  and  in  the  meantime  you  can  go 
home  and  prepare  father  a  little." 

"She  will  only  rush  off  to  be  received,"  said 
Lady  Metcalfe. 

"If  she  does  that  you  need  not  have  her  back 
at  home  again,"  said  Lady  Charsley,  "and  it  will 
not  make  half  so  much  scandal  as  if  she  were 
really  turned  out  of  the  house.  You  know  how 
servants  talk.  Peggy  is  of  age  and  one  can't  pre- 
vent her  by  force  from  doing  any  mad  thing  she 
sets  her  heart  upon." 

"Perhaps  that  would  be  best,"  said  Lady  Met- 
calfe, "I  shall  go  back  to  Mildon  this  afternoon, 
and  you  must  see  what  you  can  do.  I  am  sure 
Diana  will  think  of  something  to  say.  And  then 
if  she  does  get  herself  received,  as  you  say,  the 
scandal  will  be  much  less.  No  one  will  know  at 
Mildon  exactly  what  has  happened.  Whereas,  if 
Peggy  went  home  and  had  a  scene  with  her 
father  every  one  would  know  about  it,  and  there 


THE  REST  HOUSE  261 

would  be  sides  taken,  and  all  kinds  of  unpleasant- 
ness would  follow." 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  reasonableness  in 
Beatrice's  suggestion,  and  it  would  certainly  di- 
minish a  scandal  which  was  to  all  appearances 
becoming  inevitable.  Beatrice  was  always  per- 
suasive and  tactful,  and  with  Diana's  support, 
her  influence  might  be  of  use  at  any  rate  in  de- 
laying Peggy  from  taking  the  dreadful  step  she 
was  now  so  earnestly  contemplating. 

Lady  Metcalfe  longed  to  save  her  daughter. 
She  did  not  wish  to  see  her  thrust  homeless  and 
penniless  from  Mildon,  and  at  the  same  time,  she 
knew  that  there  would  be  no  chance  of  averting 
this  dire  catastrophe  if  Peggy  ended  by  defying 
her  father.  Lady  Metcalfe  wept  a  little  when 
Beatrice  got  up  to  go  away.  There  was  nothing 
to  be  done — nothing  at  all  except  to  try  to  keep 
Peggy  back,  at  any  rate,  for  the  present.  It  was 
all  too  dreadful  to  be  thought  of!  Catholics 
never  realized  what  mischief  they  were  making 
when  they  deliberately  set  themselves  to  prosely- 
tize. And  there  was  no  doubt  that  in  the  begin- 
ning Morford  had  taken  advantage  of  Peggy's 
youth  and  ignorance  and  impressionable  nature 
to  fill  her  mind  with  these  strange,  dangerous, 
foreign  ideas. 

Lady  Metcalfe,  feeling  that  it  could  only  pro- 
duce an  increase  of  her  own  agitation,  did  not 
see  Peggy  again  before  her  departure  from  Lon- 
don that  day.  She  left  by  a  morning  train,  hav- 
ing consigned  Peggy  with  many  tears  to  the  care 
of  her  two  sisters. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

PEGGY'S  calm  baffled  while  it  annoyed  Bea- 
trice. She  was  really  causing  an  upheaval 
that  was  unprecedented  in  the  sedate  annals  of 
the  Metcalfe  family — annals  which  so  far  had 
held  nothing  but  the  honorable  records  of  per- 
sonal success  crowning  diligent  endeavor;  of 
appropriate  (from  the  Metcalfe  point  of  view) 
marriages ;  of  daily  duties  and  pleasures  and  so- 
cial and  philanthropic  obligations  meticulously 
performed  and  fulfilled.  To  the  rigorous  prose- 
cution of  these  obligations  the  family  might  well 
and  proudly  trace  its  present  prosperity,  and 
ascribe  also  its  position  upon  that  social  pinnacle 
where  it  so  securely  and  immutably  rested.  Now 
that  suave  harmony,  repeated  through  three  suc- 
cessive generations,  was  abruptly  threatened  by 
Peggy,  always  the  least  conspicuous  as  she  was 
the  least  effective  member  of  the  family.  It  was 
Peggy,  the  unsuccessful  and  (almost)  unad- 
mired,  who  dared  to  come  forward  and  announce 
her  intention  of  deliberately  defying  and  disobey- 
ing them  all,  calling  down  just  if  severe  Olym- 
pian wrath  and  retribution  upon  her  head.  It 
was  not  that  Beatrice  approved  any  more  than 
did  her  mother  of  the  punishment  that  awaited 
Peggy.  To  pack  Peggy  off  forlorn  and  home- 
less without  a  penny  would  certainly  earn  for 
Sir  John  a  character  of  almost  criminal  harsh- 
ness. He  would  be  accused  of  bigotry  by  per- 
sons who  had  tolerant  opinions,  and  it  was  quite 

262 


THE  REST  HOUSE  263 

possible  that  his  action  might  turn  the  flood  of 
public  opinion  against  him,  and  cause  it  to 
espouse  Peggy's  cause.  It  was  all  very  difficult 
and  perplexing,  and  Beatrice  even  shed  a  few 
tears  when  she  left  her  mother  that  morning  and 
went  back  to  her  own  room. 

And  then  the  culprit  who  was  the  cause  of 
all  this  agitation  put  in  an  appearance  at  lunch- 
eon presenting  a  perfect  outward  serenity  that 
was,  under  the  tragic  circumstances,  at  once  dis- 
concerting and  a  trifle  insulting! 

But  then,  as  Beatrice  indignantly  reflected, 
that  was  Peggy  all  over!  She  was  always  the 
one  to  display  the  least  concern  in  any  awkward 
situation  she  had  been  instrumental  in  bringing 
about.  After  all,  it  would  not  do  her  a  great  deal 
of  harm  and  it  might  even  do  her  a  great  deal  of 
good  to  taste  the  parental  discipline  for  once, 
say  for  a  week,  and  realize  exactly  what  it  meant 
to  be  deprived  of  the  luxuries  and  even  of  the 
very  necessities  of  life  for  that  period.  Beatrice, 
who  could  not  imagine  doing  without  any  of 
these  things  herself  (it  was  that  same  fear  in- 
deed which  had  induced  her  finally  to  break  with 
Claude  Vernon) ,  considered  that  one  little  touch 
of  the  whip  of  want  might  produce  a  wholesome 
reaction  in  Peggy.  She  felt  that  it  might  even 
destroy  her  smiling  serenity. 

"Dear  Beatrice — how  kind  of  you  to  let  me 
stay  on  here  a  little.  I  am  most  awfully  grate- 
ful," said  Peggy. 

Except  for  Ethne's  presence,  they  were  alone 
at  luncheon.  Jack  had  a  cold  and  was  not  per- 
mitted to  leave  the  nursery. 


264  THE  REST  HOUSE 

"I  am  doing  it  for  mother's  sake,  not  for 
yours,"  said  Beatrice  coldly,  "she  is  worried  out 
of  her  senses  about  you.  I  asked  you  to  stop  on 
just  to  give  her  a  little  respite.  You  are  getting 
thoroughly  on  her  nerves,  what  with  your  refusal 
of  Hugh  and  this  silly  talk  of  becoming  a  Cath- 
olic." 

It  was  as  well  to  let  Peggy  understand  the 
position  thoroughly,  and  to  realize  that  she  was 
in  disgrace,  and  that  Beatrice's  only  motive  in  in- 
viting her  to  remain  was  to  be  found  in  her  un- 
selfish wish  to  relieve  her  mother  of  a  burden  that 
was  becoming  impossibly  heavy. 

"Charsley  says  you  always  seemed  such  a  sen- 
sible girl  with  no  nonsense  about  you — he  is 
almost  as  horrified  as  I  am.  You  see,  it  reflects 
upon  us  all,  and  if  you  are  really  sent  away  from 
home  in  disgrace  we  shall  feel  it  as  a  personal 
matter  that  touches  the  whole  family,"  said 
Beatrice. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Beatrice,"  said  Peggy.  "But 
it's  very  painful  for  me,  too,  to  feel  I'm  being 
condemned  as  a  criminal  when  I'm  only  trying  to 
do  what's  right." 

"Oh,  you  will  enjoy  being  a  martyr — we  all 
know  that,"  said  Beatrice,  "but  as  for  doing 
right,  I  am  sure  it  can  never  be  right  to  disobey 
your  parents  and  make  every  one  perfectly  miser- 
able just  for  a  caprice.  That  is  the  worst  of 
Catholics — they  so  easily  persuade  themselves  or 
let  themselves  be  persuaded  that  black  is  white! 
And  if  you  are  only  doing  this,  as  I  think  and  as 
mother  thinks  and  as  I  am  sure  Hugh  must  think, 
just  to  catch  that  Morford  man,  you  had  much 


THE  REST  HOUSE  265 

better  leave  him  out  of  your  reckoning.  People 
say  he  is  going  to  marry  Bridget  Dalton — the 
tall  fair  one.  It  is  no  match  for  her,  of  course— 
we  should  certainly  call  it  a  mesalliance — but 
Catholics,  if  they  are  at  all  bigoted,  can  not  pick 
and  choose ;  they  have  to  let  their  girls  make  that 
kind  of  marriage.  And  Bridget  will  have  five 
hundred  a  year,  so,  though  they  will  be  poor,  they 
won't  starve." 

She  watched  the  effect  of  her  words  upon 
Peggy.  It  was  only  local  gossip  and  probably 
there  was  little  truth  in  it,  but  it  would  at  least 
demonstrate  to  Peggy  that  Morford  was  not 
thinking  about  her  at  all.  But  beyond  a  slight 
increase  of  color  spreading  over  the  delicious  pal- 
lor of  Peggy's  face  at  the  mention  of  Morford's 
name,  she  betrayed  no  sign  of  emotion,  nor  even 
of  surprise.  What  did  it  matter  to  her  if  Fred- 
erick were  engaged  to  Bridget  Dalton?  The 
marriage  would  be  a  perfectly  suitable  and  prob- 
ably a  very  happy  one.  In  her  maddest  mo- 
ments, when  the  memory  of  him  held  her  so 
strongly  that  she  could  almost  fancy  it  had 
evoked  his  physical  presence,  she  had  never  im- 
agined that  he  cared  at  all  for  herself.  Indeed, 
during  the  short  hours  of  their  intercourse  she 
had  dreadfully  suspected  that  her  importunate 
questioning  had  "got  on  his  nerves,"  so  brusque 
and  even  irritable  had  he  seemed  in  his  manner 
toward  her.  She  had  always  felt  quite  convinced 
that  he  had  not  liked  her  at  all,  that  she  was  to 
him  merely  representative  of  a  type  he  disliked 
and  despised.  But  in  spite  of  this  the  impressions 
that  had  been  so  deeply  and  sharply  engraved 


266  THE  REST  HOUSE 

upon  her  mind  at  the  Rest  House  were  still  those 
that  irresistably  governed  her  with  a  force  from 
which  she  could  not  escape. 

She  was  certain  that  those  ideals  which  set  re- 
ligion above  and  beyond  all  things,  which  did  not 
fear  poverty  but  might  conceivably  fear  riches, 
to  which  temporal  success  was  a  danger  rather 
than  an  advantage,  to  which  all  things  were  in- 
ordinate that  occupied  the  mind  to  the  exclusion 
of  God — were,  in  spite  of  all  teaching  to  the  con- 
trary, the  right  ones,  the  only  sound  and  whole- 
some ones  that  would  lead  the  soul,  if  necessary, 
through  paths  of  pain  and  suffering,  to  the  ulti- 
mate reward  of  heaven.  There  are  certain 
minds  to  whom  the  whole  Faith  is  revealed  in- 
contestably  as  if  by  a  miracle  and  Peggy's  was 
one  of  them.  In  those  passionate  hours  she  had 
spent  in  the  chapel  that  winter  night,  Peggy 
had  learned  unforgetable  truths.  She  had  seen 
the  Faith  not  only  in  relation  to  herself  but  in 
relation  to  her  whole  life.  She  was  prepared  to 
suffer  for  it  and  if  need  be  to  die  for  it.  It  was 
to  her  the  only  thing  that  greatly  mattered.  And 
with  it  all,  she  did  feel  now  a  little  secret  aston- 
ishment at  her  own  fixity  of  purpose,  her  own 
changeless  resolution — qualities  about  which 
Morford  had  so  strongly  expressed  his  doubts. 
Not  that  Morford  and  his  opinions  mattered  to 
her  now.  He  had  passed  by,  and  in  passing  had 
forgotten  her.  Perhaps  he  only  now  remembered 
her  as  a  weak  and  foolish  girl,  tiresome  in  her 
persistent  demands  for  explanations  and  infor- 
mation. 

Beatrice  felt  that  she  was  not  making  much 


THE  REST  HOUSE  267 

progress,  so  she  wrote  a  little  note  to  Diana  ask- 
ing her  to  come  to  tea.  Peggy  found  rather  to 
her  dismay  that  she  was  to  be  kept  in  durance  vile 
in  the  drawing-room  all  the  afternoon.  But  she 
managed  to  scribble  a  little  note  to  Father  Fitz- 
Gerald,  telling  him  that  matters  had  come  to  a 
crisis  and  she  had  been  obliged  to  reveal  her  in- 
tentions, and  she  hoped,  if  he  thought  she  was 
now  quite  ready,  that  he  would  receive  her  on 
the  following  morning.  Valerie  was  entrusted 
with  the  note  and  told  to  bring  the  answer  back 
with  her. 

She  was  not  gone  more  than  an  hour  and 
when  she  returned  with  a  reply  that  was  to 
Peggy  so  satisfactory  that  it  brought  tears  of 
joy  to  her  eyes,  the  very  fact  gave  the  girl 
strength  to  endure  that  very  strenuous  interview 
with  Diana  after  tea. 

Beatrice  left  her  two  sisters  alone  together.  She 
had  played  her  trump  card  by  hinting  at  Mor- 
ford's  engagement,  and  she  had  really  very  little 
left  to  say.  Besides,  the  whole  affair  was  begin- 
ning to  upset  her.  It  was  clearly  Diana's  turn, 
and  she  knew  that  Diana  could  be  sharp  of 
tongue  if  she  chose.  Diana  was  the  clever  one  of 
the  family. 

"I  don't  know  in  the  least  what  you  intend  to 
do  in  the  future,  Peggy,"  said  Lady  Maddinard, 
who  was  looking  very  magnificent  in  a  dark  dress 
of  purple-colored  velvet,  which  was  extremely 
becoming  to  her,  "but  of  course  if  you  do  become 
a  Catholic  and  father  packs  you  out  of  the  house 
you  must  not  imagine  that  Beatrice  and  I  intend 
to  come  to  your  rescue.  We  should  both  consider 


268  THE  REST  HOUSE 

it  very  wrong  to  go  against  father,  so  you  must 
not  expect  us  to  do  anything  to  help  you.  But 
I  am  still  hoping  that  you  will  be  reasonable  and 
not  do  anything  to  distress  us  all." 

Peggy  raised  her  clear  brown  eyes  to  her  sis- 
ter's face.  It  had  indeed  once  or  twice  passed 
through  her  mind  that  her  sisters  would  offer  her 
a  home,  perhaps,  for  a  few  days  while  she  was 
looking  out  for  a  situation.  Now  she  only  said 
quietly : 

"I  daresay  I  shall  be  able  to  find  something 
to  do,  if  they  refuse  to  let  me  go  home." 

"That  is  all  nonsense,  Peggy!"  said  Lady 
Maddinard  angrily,  "y°u  are  the  most  useless 
person  that  ever  lived.  You  have  never  been 
accustomed  to  do  any  little  thing  for  yourself — I 
am  sure  you  could  not  even  darn  a  stocking  de- 
cently. What  sort  of  a  companion  would  you 
make,  or  a  governess  either,  for  that  matter?  I 
do  not  think  you  are  even  capable  of  teaching 
quite  little  children.  I  should  never  dream  of 
engaging  a  nursery  governess  for  the  boys  unless 
she  had  received  a  proper  training  for  the  post. 
Teaching  is  highly  specialized  in  these  days,  I  can 
tell  you,  and  the  great  thing  is  to  have  children 
properly  grounded  from  the  first.  You  will 
probably  have  a  very  hard  time  of  it,  indeed,  if 
you  force  father  to  take  these  extreme  measures, 
and  I  am  not  sure  that  it  would  not  be  much 
kinder  if  they  were  to  give  you  a  good  whipping 
and  shut  you  up  in  your  room,  just  as  they  used 
to  do  when  you  were  a  little  child,  until  you  came 
to  your  senses.  If  you  were  my  daughter  that 
is  how  you  would  be  treated,  and  fifty  years  ago 


THE  REST  HOUSE  269 

it  is  certainly  what  would  have  happened  to  you. 
Girls  were  much  more  severely  treated  then." 

"You  really  must  not  trouble  about  me,  Diana. 
I  am  sure  I  shall  manage  very  well." 

"I  am  not  going  to  trouble  about  you  at  all. 
But  if  you  do  take  this  step  I  shall  certainly  wash 
my  hands  of  you.  I  am  not  at  all  intolerant  or 
bigoted  on  the  subject  of  religion,  but  I  do  think 
it  very  wrong  of  any  girl  to  be  as  disobedient  as 
you  are  threatening  to  be!" 

Peggy  was  silent.  After  a  short  pause  Diana 
returned  to  the  attack. 

"Of  course  it  was  suicidal  of  you  to  refuse  to 
marry  Hugh.  You  are  twenty-one — you  have 
been  out  three  years,  and  this  is  the  first  proposal 
you  have  had.  You  have  never  been  at  all  a 
success,  socially  speaking,  and  mother  soon  saw 
that  and  gave  up  trying  to  take  you  out.  She 
said  it  was  useless  to  bring  you  to  town  for  the 
season.  I  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  that  you 
would  never  marry,  and  I  was  delighted  to  hear 
that  Hugh  wanted  to  marry  you.  I  never  ex- 
pected you  would  have  such  a  good  offer  as  that, 
and  we  were  all  very  much  surprised.  It's  not  as 
if  you  were  pretty,  Peggy.  And  then  you  never 
tried  to  make  yourself  agreeable  to  people. 
When  Hugh  first  proposed  and  you  refused  him 
we  all  felt  that  you  were  very  young  for  your  age 
and  did  not  realize  what  you  were  doing.  Mother 
thought  a  little  time  for  quiet  reflection  would  be 
the  best  thing  for  you,  and  you  have  had  a  good 
many  months  in  which  to  think  it  all  over.  And 
last  night  Beatrice  gave  you  another  chance  of 
seeing  Hugh,  but  it  was  no  use.  You  did  not 


270  THE  REST  HOUSE 

respond  at  all — you  only  flung  this  absurd  talk 
of  becoming  a  Catholic  at  his  head.  It  is  not  as 
if  we  had  any  Catholics  in  the  family!  No  one 
has  ever  been  taken  that  way,  and  it  shows  how 
unreliable  you  must  be  to  think  that  one  night- 
owe  night,  Peggy! — spent  in  a  Catholic  house 
should  have  the  effect  of  making  you  forget  all 
your  early  training — all  that  you  have  been  so 
carefully  taught.  Of  course,  we  all  know  that 
there  is  a  dreadful  bounder  of  a  man  at  the  back 
of  it  all,  but  he  is  going  to  be  married,  Beatrice 
says,  so  you  can  not  hope  that  he  will  take  pity 
on  you  and  marry  you !" 

This  cruel  allusion  to  Morford  made  Peggy's 
heart  beat  a  little  quicker,  but  her  face  was  even 
more  sternly  controlled.  Xo  one  seemed  able  to 
discuss  the  subject  with  her  without  dragging 
in  his  name.  He  was  in  their  eyes  the  one  who 
was  originally  responsible  for  the  defection  of 
Peggy,  and  although  he  could  have  now  little  or 
nothing  to  do  with  her  continued  desire  to  be  re- 
ceived into  the  Catholic  Church,  he  was  still 
blamed  for  his  interference  in  the  past.  And  he 
was  so  innocent — he  deserved  nothing  of  all  their 
blame !  Peggy  longed  most  passionately  to  defend 
him,  but  the  words  that  she  would  have  uttered 
died  on  her  lips.  She  seemed  to  recognize  how 
useless  her  little  effort  would  be  to  convince  Lady 
Maddinard.  Yet  she  felt  that  her  very  silence 
held  something  of  disloyalty  toward  him,  who 
after  all  had  taught  her  her  first  lessons  in  the 
Faith. 

"It  is  so  dreadful  to  think  you  should  have 
allowed  yourself  to  be  influenced  by  such  a  per- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  271 

son,"  continued  Diana,  "Beatrice  says  the  Mor- 
fords  are  nobodies  and  are  as  poor  as  church 
mice — it  is  no  match  at  all  for  Bridget  Dalton, 
but  as  she  is  a  Catholic  it  is  perhaps  as  good  as  she 
can  expect!" 

Peggy  said  slowly: 

"I  hope  some  day,  Diana,  I  shall  be  able  to 
convince  you  all  that  Mr.  Morfcrd  had  nothing  to 
do  with  my  wish  to  become  a  Catholic.  It  is 
true  I  asked  him  questions  about  it  and  he  an- 
swered them — not  always  very  willingly.  But  he 
never  tried  to  influence  me  nor  persuade  me." 

"Peggy,"  said  Diana,  very  seriously  indeed, 
"I  will  give  you  another  chance.  Come  down  to 
Queensworthy  to-morrow  with  me  and  stay  with 
us  and  think  it  all  over.  You  can  stay  with  me 
as  long  as  you  like ;  and  I  hope  when  you  realize 
what  misery  you  will  bring  upon  us  all  by  persist- 
ing that  you  will  give  up  the  whole  idea.  We 
shall  be  quite  alone — we  shall  have  no  one  staying 
with  us.  You  can  be  as  quiet  as  you  wish.  I  do 
not  wish  to  be  hard  on  you — I  wish  to  be  your 
friend,  Peggy,  and  save  you  from  the  awful  con- 
sequences. Will  you  come?" 

Peggy  waited  for  a  moment.  Then  she  looked 
up  and  said  quietly: 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Diana ;  it  is  very  kind 
of  you.  But  I  can't  come.  My  mind  is  quite 
made  up." 

She  rose  and  stood  there,  a  rather  drooping 
little  figure  in  her  plain  gray  dress. 

"I  daresay  we  shall  not  see  each  other  again," 
she  said  as  she  held  out  her  hand  timidly  to  her 
sister.  "But  please  think  as  kindly  of  me  as  you 


272  THE  BEST  HOUSE 

can.  Please  believe  that  my  reasons  must  have 
been  very  strong  to  make  me  go  against  you  all 
in  this  way." 

Diana  did  not  attempt  to  take  her  sister's  hand 
nor  did  she  say  another  word  as  Peggy  went 
noiselessly  out  of  the  room. 

"She  must  be  quite,  quite  mad,"  thought 
Diana,  "and  I'm  not  sure  that  is'nt  the  kindest 
thing  one  can  say  about  her!" 

It  was  soon  after  breakfast  on  the  following 
day  that  Beatrice  appeared  unexpectedly  in 
Peggy's  room  and  found  her  dressed  and  ready 
to  go  out.  Something  in  her  sister's  appearance 
attracted  her  attention  and  also  aroused  her  sus- 
picions. She  had  never  seen  Peggy  dressed  quite 
like  that  before.  That  black  coat  and  skirt  must 
have  formed  part  of  her  ancient  mourning  for  old 
Miss  Metcalfe.  It  was  certainly  not  new  and  it 
was  decidedly  shabby.  On  her  head  Peggy  wore 
an  inconspicuous  black  hat  and  rather  a  thick  veil 
which  obscured  her  features. 

The  morning  was  wet,  and  Beatrice  could  not 
imagine  why  Peggy  should  choose  such  a  day  for 
an  early  expedition. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Peggy?"  she  inquired, 
trying  to  speak  lightly. 

After  all,  it  would  have  been  better  to  let 
Peggy  return  with  her  mother  to  Mildon.  Her 
father  might  have  frightened  her  into  submission, 
whereas  she  and  Diana  had  only  wasted  their 
breath  in  talking  to  her. 

"I  am  going  out,  Beatrice,"  said  Peggy. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  273 

"Not — ?  You  are  not  going  to  be  received, 
Peggy?"  cried  Beatrice. 

Peggy  did  not  answer.  She  was  buttoning  her 
gloves  and  seemed  absorbed  in  this  minor  activity. 
She  did  not  even  look  at  her  sister. 

Beatrice  caught  her  quite  roughly  by  the  arm. 

"Peggy!  I  won't  have  it!  You  shan't  go! 
You're  too  young  to  know  what  you  are  doing — 
how  wicked  it  is — how  dreadful!" 

"Leave  me  alone,  please,  Beatrice,"  said 
Peggy.  Her  face  was  white,  she  felt  a  little 
shaken  by  her  sister's  violence. 

"You  know  how  furious  father  will  be!  And 
he  will  blame  me  for  keeping  you  here — for  not 
sending  you  home  yesterday !  You  will  bring  un- 
told trouble  upon  us  all  as  well  as  upon  yourself. 
It  is  such  a  disgrace  to  have  one's  own  sister  sent 
away  from  her  home — people  will  imagine  all 
kinds  of  dreadful  things!" 

Peggy  turned  and  looked  quite  steadily  at  her 
sister. 

"My  mind  is  quite  made  up,"  she  said, 
"nothing  can  stop  me  now.  I  am  going  to  be  re- 
ceived this  morning.  I  know  I  can  not  go  home." 
Her  eyes  were  bright  and  hard  and  her  voice  was 
steadily  controlled. 

Beatrice  turned  abruptly  away  and  burst  into 
violent  weeping.  Oh,  the  disgrace  of  having  a 
sister  turned  out  of  her  own  home  as  if  she  were 
too  wicked  to  be  permitted  to  remain  there !  The 
shame  would  cling  to  the  whole  family — one  knew 
how  these  things  were  exaggerated  in  the  course 
of  constant  repetition.  People  would  soon  cease 


274  THE  REST  HOUSE 

to  believe  the  real  explanation !  And  they  had  al- 
ways been  so  proud,  they  had  held  their  heads  so 
high!  The  episode,  trivial  in  itself,  promised  to 
stain  as  with  a  permanent  blur  the  bright  glory  of 
the  Metcalfe  family. 

But  the  violence  of  Beatrice's  grief  and  emo- 
tion awoke  no  contrition  in  Peggy.  She  felt  as 
if  now  she  were  being  invincibly  pushed  forward 
across  all  obstacles,  despite  all  warnings.  Be- 
yond lay  something  that  was  still  untried  by  her, 
but  she  believed  that  it  was  very  good. 

"I  am  sorry,  Beatrice,"  she  said,  "I  can't  go 
back  now,  and  whatever  happens  I  shall  know 
that  I  have  done  right.  But  of  course  it  is  horri- 
ble to  give  other  people  so  much  pain  and  distress 
even  when  it  is  inevitable." 

"Inevitable!"  exclaimed  Beatrice  with  indigna- 
tion. "It  is  not  inevitable!  It  is  only  a  silly 
whim — a  caprice — you  have  always  been  silly 
and  hysterical  and  strange  and  not  like  the  rest 
of  us.  You  have  always  given  as  much  trouble 
as  you  possibly  could.  We  were  none  of  us  ever 
punished  as  you  had  to  be!" 

Peggy  had  moved  toward  the  door,  but  her 
sister's  taunts  moved  her  to  a  sudden  anger  which 
she  could  not  repress.  She  faced  Beatrice  once 
more  and  said: 

"Yes,  I  could  never  obey  blindly,  Beatrice,  or 
I  suppose  I  should  have  married  Hugh  when  I 
was  told  to,  just  as  you  married  Charsley." 

She  was  ashamed  of  having  made  this  retort 
the  moment  it  had  passed  her  lips ;  it  was  her  one 
little  lapse  from  perfect  self-control.  She  ran 
quickly  back  to  her  sister's  side. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  275 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry,  Beatrice — I  did  not  mean  to 
say  anything  unkind.  Just  for  the  moment  I  was 
angry  and  forgot."  She  looked  pitifully,  en- 
treatingly  at  Beatrice. 

But  Beatrice  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  words 
nor  the  little  imploring  gesture  that  accom- 
panied them.  She  was  biting  her  lips  as  if  to 
keep  back  her  tears.  She  looked  quite  strangely 
at  Peggy  as  she  went  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

WHEN  Peggy  returned  to  her  sister's  house  in 
Portman  Square  about  two  hours  later  she 
saw  her  trunks  locked  and  strapped  waiting  in 
the  hall.  As  she  entered  the  house,  Lord  Chars- 
ley  appeared  from  his  study,  which  was  on  the 
ground  floor. 

"Call  a  cab  for  Miss  Metcalfe,"  he  said  to  the 
footman,  and  then  turning  to  Peggy  added: 
"Will  you  come  in  here  for  a  moment,  please?" 

Peggy  followed  him  into  the  room.  He  closed 
the  door,  and  then  said  abruptly: 

"Have  you  carried  out  your  threat  and  be- 
come a  Catholic?" 

"Yes.  I  was  received  this  morning,"  said 
Peggy  quietly. 

"You  can't  stay  here,  then,"  said  Lord  Chars- 
ley,  in  tones  that  were  icily  polite.  "Beatrice 
owes  a  great  deal  to  her  father  and  so  do  I.  We 
don't  wish  to  offend  him  by  keeping  you  here. 
Sorry,  Peggy,  but  you'll  have  to  go.  I  daresay 
you  noticed  that  your  luggage  was  ready  in  the 
hall." 

"Yes,  I  saw  it  there,"  said  Peggy  a  little  ab- 
sently. "May  I  go  and  say  good-bye  to  Bea- 
trice, please?" 

"No,  certainly  not,"  he  answered.  "My  wife 
is  very  much  upset.  She  said  you  were  very  un- 
kind and  rude  to  her  before  you  went  out  this 
morning.  I  can't  have  her  worried,  and  she's 

276 


THE  REST  HOUSE  277 

lying  down  now.  That  is  all  I  think  I  have  to 
say  to  you." 

As  he  looked  at  her  he  wondered  a  little  at  the 
cool  tranquillity  of  her.  He  had  never  seen  her 
look  so  serene  or  so  happy.  He  had  always  liked 
his  young  sister-in-law,  had  treated  her  rather  as 
if  she  were  quite  a  little  girl.  But  his  opinion  of 
her  had  changed.  She  had  taken  this  step  in 
defiance  of  her  parents'  wishes.  In  the  past  he 
had  been  inclined  to  think  that  the  Metcalfes 
were  a  little  hard  on  Peggy;  now  he  saw  that 
probably  the  treatment  had  been  necessary.  The 
timid-looking  little  creature  had  a  will  of  her 
own. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Peggy,  forcing  back  her 
tears.  She  longed  to  see  Beatrice  once  more 
before  she  went  away.  But  there  was  something 
stern  and  unrelenting  about  Lord  Charsley's 
red,  boyish  face.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  as 
she  spoke,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  it. 

"I  believe  the  cab  is  there,"  he  said. 

"Please  say  good-bye  to  Beatrice  for  me.  Tell 
her  I  am  sorry  I  said  anything  she  thought  was 
rude  and  unkind,"  said  Peggy.  She  had  some  diffi- 
culty in  uttering  the  words,  for  a  lump  had  risen 
in  her  throat  and  threatened  to  choke  her.  She  felt 
suddenly  small  and  young  and  very  helpless — and 
cold.  It  was  the  physical  cold  that  seemed  to 
creep  inward  toward  her  heart  like  a  trickle  of 
icy  water.  She  slowly  went  out  of  the  room  and 
back  into  the  hall.  The  cab  was  there,  not  a  taxi 
but  an  ancient  four-wheeler,  and  her  boxes  were 
piled  upon  it.  She  gave  the  man  the  address  of 
a  convent  not  very  far  from  the  Oratory  where 


278  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Father  FitzGerald  had  told  her  she  could  go  for 
a  few  days  if  her  sister  really  refused  to  receive 
her. 

Peggy  had  known  that  she  would  not  be  per- 
mitted to  remain  in  Beatrice's  house.  Her  sisters 
had  plainly  intimated  that  in  this  matter  they 
would  be  firmly  ranged  on  the  side  of  the  Olym- 
pians— would  join  in  their  endeavor  to  force  her 
ultimate  capitulation  by  the  cutting  off  from  her 
of  all  the  necessities  of  life.  But  she  had  not 
believed  that  Beatrice  would  allow  her  to  be  sum- 
marily turned  away  from  Portman  Square  in  this 
manner;  without  a  word  of  farewell  and  without 
so  much  as  a  mouthful  of  food.  And  she  was  so 
tired  and  cold  and  hungry!  She  felt  as  if 
she  had  had  a  blow  in  the  face.  The  shutting  of 
the  big  door  as  she  got  into  the  cab  seemed  to  be 
drearily  symbolic  of  the  attitude  of  all  her  rela- 
tions. She  was  to  be  shut  out  from  all  intercourse 
with  them  because  she  had  disobeyed  and  offended 
her  father.  The  knowledge  did  for  a  moment 
blot  out  the  perfect  contentment  that  had  been 
hers  since  she  left  the  Oratory  that  morning. 

Of  course  it  had  not  been  without  its  difficult 
side.  To  no  convert,  however  young,  however  in- 
nocent, however  free  from  grave  mortal  sin,  is  the 
first  confession  a  very  easy  matter.  It  is  the  first, 
fiery  proof  of  submission,  a  sharp  way  that  must 
be  passed  before  the  gates  can  be  opened.  And 
Peggy,  sensitive  of  conscience  as  of  heart,  had 
dreaded  it  not  a  little.  There  had  been  so  many 
faults  so  often  repeated,  with  so  little  serious  en- 
deavor on  her  part  to  correct  them.  But  Father 


THE  REST  HOUSE  279 

FitzGerald  had  made  the  whole  thing  as  easy  as 
he  could  for  her,  as  a  wise  and  experienced  priest 
always  can.  He  was  deeply  learned  in  the  human 
soul,  and  he  was  aware  that  Peggy  was  on  the 
threshold  of  what  might  possibly  prove  a  life  of 
great  sacrifice.  There  was  a  risk  about  instruct- 
ing and  receiving  a  girl  placed  as  she  was.  He  be- 
lieved and  prayed  that  she  would  have  the  strength 
to  persevere  in  spite  of  it  all.  And  when  her  con- 
fession had  been  made  haltingly,  stumblingly, 
but  with  a  contrition  that  was  almost  over- 
whelming, Peggy  for  the  first  time  received  the 
grace  imparted  by  sacramental  absolution.  Per- 
haps there  is  nothing  quite  like  the  sense  of  holy 
joy  and  peace  that  follows  that  first  absolution, 
that  washing  white  of  past  stains.  Peggy  had 
passed  through  that  pain  and  joy  since  she  had 
left  her  sister's  house  that  morning.  She  felt 
changed  and  in  some  ways  much  older  and  more 
responsible.  She  had  taken  her  life  deliberately 
into  her  own  hands.  That  in  itself  was  a  great 
responsibility.  She  had  undertaken  new  duties 
and  new  obligations,  some  of  which  she  could  not 
forego  under  pain  of  mortal  sin.  But  she  had 
knelt  for  the  first  time  as  a  Catholic  before  the 
altar  of  God.  She  had  said  over  and  over  again 
with  tears  of  contrition  and  joy,  "I  have  come! 
I  have  come!" 

That  promise,  with  all  the  heavy  obligations 
it  involved,  had  been  rigorously  fulfilled.  That 
there  was  any  generosity  in  her  action  never  en- 
tered Peggy's  mind.  She  had  the  knowledge— 
which  all  converts  must  have — that  all  she  could 


280  THE  REST  HOUSE 

be  called  upon  to  sacrifice  for  her  faith  was  as  a 
mere  grain  of  dust  in  comparison  with  the  gifts 
she  had  received. 

Although  her  heart  was  sore  and  wounded  by 
Charsley's  words  and  Beatrice's  refusal  to  see 
her  or  receive  her  again,  there  was  a  contentment 
and  happiness  in  her  soul  which  these  exterior 
hardships  could  not  touch. 

The  cab  had  passed  down  Park  Lane,  and  near 
Hyde  Park  Corner  there  was  a  block  in  the  traffic 
and  she  was  delayed  for  a  few  moments  while  a 
stream  of  vehicles  passed  northward.  A  gleam  of 
sunshine  touched  the  bare,  leafless  trees  in  the 
park  and  made  the  grass  seem  almost  vividly 
green.  There  were  a  good  many  people  there, 
riding  and  walking.  A  small  child  clad  from 
head  to  foot  in  scarlet  made  a  sudden  diminutive 
blot  of  abrupt  color.  Then  the  cab  passed  down 
the  hill  to  Knightsbridge,  and  at  Sloane  Street 
turned  into  the  Brompton  Road. 

The  convent  where  she  was  to  stay  was  not 
very  far  from  the  Oratory.  It  was  situated  in  a 
quiet  street  and  was  a  tall  house  built  of  dark 
brown  brick.  Father  FitzGerald  had  made  all 
the  arrangements  for  her  to  stay,  supposing  she 
was  not  allowed  to  return  to  her  sister's  house; 
he  had  said  it  would  be  easier  for  her  to  receive 
her  First  Communion  there  in  the  nuns'  chapel 
on  the  following  morning. 

Peggy  felt  very  nervous  when  she  had  paid  the 
cabman,  as  she  went  up  the  steps  to  the  front  door 
and  rang  the  bell.  She  even  had  a  vague  appre- 
hension that  Father  FitzGerald  might  have  omit- 
ted to  mention  the  possibility  of  her  arrival  to 


THE  REST  HOUSE  281 

the  nuns,  and  that  they  would  hesitate  in  conse- 
quence to  receive  a  perfect  stranger  of  whom  they 
knew  nothing.  She  had  just  received  one  sharp 
rebuff  and  dreaded  a  second  one.  But  her  fears 
were  quickly  lulled,  for  the  lay- Sister  who  admit- 
ted her  showed  her  at  once  into  a  small,  rather 
bare  parlor,  and  merely  asked  if  she  wished  her 
luggage  to  be  brought  in.  Peggy  answered  yes, 
and  that  she  would  like  to  speak  to  the  Mother 
Superior.  The  Sister  went  away  then  and  left 
her,  closing  the  door. 

The  room  was  rather  dark ;  it  looked  onto  a  tiny 
garden  that  contained  apparently  only  a  few 
smoke-blackened  shrubs,  and  was  over-shadowed 
by  a  wall  that  was  built  out  at  right  angles.  There 
was  not  much  furniture.  A  round,  polished  table 
with  a  few  books  on  it  occupied  the  middle  of  the 
room.  Some  chairs  were  grouped  severely  round 
the  walls.  There  was  another  table  on  which 
stood  a  cheap  plaster  statue  of  Our  Lady.  A 
large  crucifix  hung  on  the  wall  and  a  shiny, 
colored  oleograph  of  Pope  Pius  X. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  Reverend  Mother 
appeared.  She  was  a  tall,  elderly  Englishwoman 
with  a  plain,  kind  face.  She  kissed  Peggy,  and 
told  her  that  she  had  heard  her  history  from 
Father  FitzGerald  and  was  glad  that  she  had 
been  able  to  come  to  the  convent.  She  hoped  that 
she  would  stay  there  as  long  as  she  liked. 

The  kind  words  cheered  poor  Peggy,  who  was 
feeling  a  little  lost  and  strange  in  her  novel,  un- 
accustomed surroundings.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  must  be  dreaming,  and  that  she  would  pres- 
ently awake  and  find  herself  back  at  Mildon.  It 


282  THE  REST  HOUSE 

was  impossible  to  think  that  her  father  would 
never  let  her  go  back  there  again. 

Presently  the  Reverend  Mother  gave  her  into 
the  charge  of  another  and  younger  nun,  bidding 
her  take  Peggy  up  to  the  room  that  had  been 
made  ready  for  her.  They  climbed  several  flights 
of  steep  stairs,  and  at  the  top  of  the  house  the 
nun  showed  Peggy  into  a  tiny  room  facing  the 
streets. 

"I  daresay  you  would  like  some  books  to  read," 
said  the  nun,  I  will  go  and  fetch  some  for  you." 
She  smilled  kindly  at  Peggy  as  she  went  away. 

Peggy  looked  round  the  room.  It  was  small 
and  fireless  and  very  cold.  It  was  furnished,  too, 
in  a  manner  that  the  veriest  under-servant  at 
Mildon  would  never  have  tolerated.  There  was 
no  wardrobe,  only  a  row  of  pegs  behind  a  faded 
chintz  curtain  that  had  become  shrunken  and 
colorless  from  frequent  washing.  A  threadbare 
strip  of  carpet  was  spread  on  the  floor  beside  the 
bed,  otherwise  the  boards  were  bare  and  uncov- 
ered. There  was  a  small  iron  bedstead  covered 
with  a  white  counterpane.  An  iron  wash-stand 
stood  in  one  corner,  and  there  was  a  cheap  painted 
chest  of  drawers  with  a  discolored  looking-glass 
standing  upon  it.  Over  the  bed  there  was  a  small 
crucifix  and  just  by  the  door  hung  a  stoup  of 
holy-water.  There  was  one  or  two  framed  photo- 
graphs of  sacred  pictures  on  the  walls.  But  in 
spite  of  its  poverty  there  was  something  about  the 
room  that  attracted  Peggy.  The  crucifix  and  the 
holy- water  stoup  seemed  to  her  symbolic  of  those 
precious  things  for  which  she  had  exchanged  the 
soft  ease  and  luxury  of  her  former  life.  They 


THE  REST  HOUSE  283 

were  the  things  that  were  not  to  be  found  at 
Mildon.  Sir  John  would  not  have  admitted  "that 
Popish  rubbish"  into  his  house.  He  would  not 
have  had  such  things  there  even  had  they  been 
antiques  and  curios  to  be  exhibited  behind  the 
glass  doors  of  priceless  cabinets,  as  some  people 
keep  them. 

Peggy  took  some  writing  materials  from  her 
bag  and  wrote  a  little  note  to  her  mother.  It  was 
not  a  very  easy  thing  to  do,  although  she  im- 
agined that  Beatrice  had  already  acquainted  her 
with  the  fact  of  her  reception  by  telegram.  The 
little  action  cost  her  some  tears  and  she  tore  up 
several  sheets  of  paper  before  she  felt  at  all  satis- 
fied with  the  result.  First  she  seemed  to  write 
too  much  and  then  too  little.  Even  when  she  had 
folded  the  letter  and  consigned  it  to  an  envelope 
she  did  not  feel  as  if  she  had  said  exactly  what 
ought  to  have  been  said. 

"My  dearest  Mother  (the  letter  ran) — I  am 
afraid  that  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  will  dis- 
tress you  very  much.  I  was  received  into  the 
Catholic  Church  to-day.  Beatrice  says  I  can  not 
stay  with  her  any  more,  so  I  came  here.  It  is  a 
convent.  Some  day  I  hope  you  will  learn  to  for- 
give me,  for,  indeed,  I  could  not  have  acted  in 
any  other  way.  Ever  since  I  learned  about  the 
Catholic  Church  I  felt  that  I  must  belong  to  it. 
I  am  stopping  here  till  I  hear  from  you  whether 
I  may  come  home,  but  of  course  I  can  not  hope 
that  father  will  receive  me  now. 

"Your  loving  daughter, 

PEGGY." 


284  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Luncheon  was  already  over  at  the  convent, 
for  in  almost  all  religious  houses  the  hours  of  the 
meals  are  much  earlier  than  those  that  generally 
prevail  in  the  outside  world.  About  three  o'clock 
a  tray  with  tea  and  bread  and  butter  was  brought 
up  to  Peggy's  room.  She  was  quite  glad  of  the 
food,  for  she  had  eaten  nothing  since  her  break- 
fast and  was  begining  to  feel  exhausted.  When 
she  had  finished  her  tea  she  lay  down  on  the  bed 
and  as  long  as  the  light  lasted  she  read  the  books 
the  nun  had  brought  for  her.  Among  them  was 
Mother  Loyola's  "Welcome,"  and  Peggy  found 
in  it  something  at  once  absorbing  and  peculiarly 
fitted  to  her  own  case — this  simple  instruction  for 
a  child  who  is  about  to  receive  its  First  Commu- 
nion. Although  it  was  written  expressly  for 
children  there  was  something  in  the  book  that 
fascinated  Peggy;  she  read  it  through  from  be- 
ginning to  end.  It  seemed  to  her  when  she  had 
finished  it  that  it  had  taught  her  a  great  deal 
more  abqut  the  joy  that  awaited  her  on  the  fol- 
lowing day. 

Then  it  became  too  dark  to  read.  A  candle 
and  matches  stood  by  the  bedside;  there  was  no 
gas  or  electric  light  in  the  room.  But  Peggy  did 
not  light  the  candle.  She  was  tired  and  very 
drowsy;  she  turned  her  head  on  the  pillow  and 
fell  asleep.  And  in  her  sleep  she  had  the  same 
dream  that  she  had  once  before — she  dreamed 
that  she  was  wandering  in  the  darkness  and  cold 
with  Peter  by  her  side  and  a  third  figure  whose 
face  she  could  not  see.  But  this  time,  instead  of 
remaining  obscure  and  invisible,  the  face  was  sud- 
denly turned  toward  her,  and  she  saw  that  it  be- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  285 

longed  to  Frederick  Morford  and  he  was  leading 
her  to  the  door  of  the  Rest  House. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  dream  which  first  put  it 
into  Peggy's  head  to  go  down  to  the  Rest  House 
and  see  Mary  Morford  again  and  talk  things  over 
with  her,  supposing  she  was  not  allowed  to  re- 
turn to  Mildon.  It  would  be  all  the  easier  to  do 
this  now  that  she  knew  Morford  was  going  to 
marry  Bridget  Dalton.  Without  this  knowledge 
Peggy  felt  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  seek 
Mary  Morford  now.  Every  one  had  been  so 
ready  to  believe  that  it  was  Frederick's  influence 
that  had  induced  her  to  become  a  Catholic ;  it  was 
quite  clear,  too,  that  they  all  believed  that  she  had 
fallen  in  love  with  him.  This  would  have  made 
her  nervous  and  self-conscious  about  approaching 
him,  but  now  that  she  was  convinced  he  was  not 
thinking  of  her  at  all — had  never,  indeed,  thought 
of  her  in  that  way — it  made  it  seem  quite  the 
most  natural  thing  for  her  to  seek  out  these  peo- 
ple in  whose  house  she  had  had  her  first  lessons 
in  the  Faith. 

When  Peggy  went  downstairs  to  supper  that 
night  she  found  quite  a  number  of  people  sitting 
at  the  long  table  in  the  dining-room.  She  slipped 
into  a  vacant  place,  feeling  far  too  shy  and  em- 
barrassed to  speak  to  any  one. 

Presently  she  glanced  at  her  next-door  neigh- 
bor and  found  that  she  did  not  look  at  all  an 
alarming  person,  being  a  girl  scarcely  older  than 
herself.  Their  eyes  met  and  she  said  to  Peggy: 

"Have  you  been  here  long?  I  only  came  to- 
day." 


286  THE  REST  HOUSE 

"I  have  only  just  come  myself,"  said  Peggy. 

"I  wonder  if  the  food  is  decent,"  said  the  girl 
as  a  plate  of  soup  was  set  in  front  of  her. 

Peggy  could  offer  no  information  on  the  point, 
and  presently  her  companion  said: 

"Is  this  the  first  time  you've  been  here?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peggy. 

"Do  you  mean  to  stay  long?" 

"I — I'm  not  sure.  But  I  suppose  until  I've 
found  something  to  do."  She  paused  a  moment 
and  then  said:  "You  see,  I  have  only  just  become 
a  Catholic — I  was  received  to-day." 

"How  odd  that  must  be,"  said  the  girl,  looking 
at  Peggy  with  some  curiosity,  "I've  always  been 
one  myself.  But  there  are  lots  of  converts  here, 
and  some  of  them  have  homes  they  can't  go  to." 

"I'm  afraid  that's  what  will  happen  to  me," 
said  Peggy. 

"Although  the  girl  had  a  brusque,  offhand 
manner,  she  could  not  help  liking  her;  there  was 
something  kind  about  her  light  eyes  as  she  looked 
at  Peggy.  She  was  plain  and  shabbily  dressed 
and  had  pale,  sandy  hair  and  a  freckled  com- 
plexion. Peggy  noticed,  too,  that  she  was  not 
very  neat;  her  hair  was  untidy  and  there  was  a 
button  missing  on  her  blouse. 

"Oh,  that's  bad  luck!"  she  said  in  a  sympathetic 
tone  that  went  to  Peggy's  heart  and  almost 
brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes,  "but  I  daresay 
you'll  soon  get  something  to  do.  You  could  eas- 
ily get  a  place  as  companion — perhaps  to  some 
rich  lady.  People  like  to  have  a  pretty,  well- 
dressed  companion  to  go  about  with  them." 


THE  REST  HOUSE  287 

Peggy  flushed  a  little  at  the  implied  compli- 
ment. 

"My  name's  Monica  West,"  she  presently  in- 
formed Peggy,  "will  you  tell  me  yours?" 

"Peggy  Metcalfe,"  said  Peggy,  with  a  smile. 

"You  must  ask  Reverend  Mother  to  try  and 
find  something  for  you.  People  often  come  to 
her  if  they  want  governesses  and  companions. 
She  is  awfully  kind  and  takes  no  end  of  trouble, 
especially  if  one's  a  homeless  convert.  Some 
friends  of  ours  have  told  me  so." 

"You're  not  looking  for  anything?"  asked 
Peggy.  She  thought  Miss  West  seemed  a  very 
capable  and  competent  girl,  well  able  to  look 
after  herself. 

"Oh,  no — I'm  going  to  work  at  a  studio.  I  won 
a  scholarship  for  painting  in  the  North  where  we 
live,  and  so  I  came  to  study  in  London.  Do  you 
paint  at  all?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  can't  do  anything.  My  sister  said 
I  shouldn't  even  be  qualified  to  teach  little  chil- 
dren. People  want  trained  governesses  with  cer- 
tificates and  all  that." 

"What  a  pity!  And  people  generally  expect 
their  companions  to  be  musical.  But  I'm  sure 
you'll  get  on  all  right,"  said  Miss  West. 

She  looked  with  frank  envy  at  Peggy's  pretty, 
dainty  blouse. 

"I  suppose  you  were  pretty  well  off  at  home?" 
she  said,  "that  will  make  it  harder  for  you  now. 
You  must  have  lots  of  pluck,  though,  to  become 
a  Catholic  when  your  people  disapproved.  I  have 
sometimes  almost  wished  I  wasn't  one.  Oh, 


288  THE  REST  HOUSE 

don't  think  me  very  wicked — but  it's  ofter  rather 
a  bore.  For  instance,  when  I'd  won  the  scholar- 
ship, I  was  dreadfully  afraid  I  shouldn't  be  al- 
lowed to  come  to  London.  Such  a  fuss  and 
bother!  Our  priest  was  consulted  and  at  first  he 
was  awfully  against  it — said  I  was  too  young  to 
be  in  town  on  my  own  and  all  that.  Mother  was 
on  the  point  of  refusing,  when  she  heard  of  this 
convent,  and  Reverend  Mother  has  promised  to 
keep  her  eye  on  me  and  see  that  I  don't  get  into 
mischief."  She  smiled  and  her  light  eyes 
twinkled.  "We  weren't  brought  up  to  think  much 
about  fame  and  success  and  all  that,  only  to  be 
good  Catholics  and  practise  our  religion  faith- 
fully. I  made  all  sorts  of  promises,  I  can  tell 
you,  before  they  gave  their  consent!" 

Peggy  began  to  feel  deeply  interested  in  her 
companion,  but  supper  was  now  at  an  end ;  some 
of  the  ladies  had  already  risen  from  their  seats 
and  were  moving  toward  the  door.  In  a  few  min- 
utes she  rose,  too,  and  followed  Monica  West 
up  the  steep  stairs  to  her  room  on  the  top  floor. 
It  was  rather  nice  to  find  that  Monica  was  in  the 
room  next  to  hers.  She  liked  to  think  she  had  a 
friend  at  hand. 

Peggy  rose  very  early  on  the  following  morn- 
ing, and  made  her  way  down  to  the  little  chapel. 
She  was  there  for  quite  half  an  hour,  a  devout  and 
kneeling  figure,  before  Father  FitzGerald  came 
in  to  say  Mass.  Nearly  all  the  nuns  seemed  to 
to  be  present,  and  the  front  benches  were  filled 
with  black-veiled  figures,  kneeling  there  very  still 
and  motionless  and  absorbed.  Peggy  crept  into 


THE  REST  HOUSE  289 

a  corner.  She  wore  on  her  head  a  white  veil  which 
had  been  brought  to  her  room  just  as  she  was  fin- 
ishing dressing.  The  nun  who  arranged  it  for 
her,  fastening  it  firmly  upon  her  dark  hair,  had 
noticed  how  pale  she  looked.  She  had  kissed 
Peggy  on  both  cheeks  and  said: 

"We  are  all  praying  for  you." 

It  was  the  first  time  Peggy  had  been  present 
at  Mass  since  that  morning  at  the  Rest  House. 
She  was  still  unable  to  follow  it  quite  perfectly, 
but  she  understood  it  now  and  realized  its  tre- 
mendous and  poignant  significance.  It  seemed 
to  her,  too,  that  it  was  the  most  complete  prepara- 
tion that  there  could  possibly  be  for  the  com- 
munion that  was  to  follow.  Her  eyes  fell  upon 
her  open  book  and  she  read  these  words : 

"Oh,  for  the  ardent  faith  of  those  who  truly 
know  their  Lord  in  the  breaking  of  bread,  whose 
heart  burns  when  Jesus  is  with  them" 

After  her  communion  Peggy  remained  upon 
her  knees  for  a  very  long  time.  She  could,  in- 
deed, have  remained  there  for  hours  and  hours,  as 
she  had  done  that  night  at  the  Rest  House  when 
she  had  unconsciously  made  her  first  spiritual 
communion.  She  had  the  sense  of  safety  after  a 
breathless  chase  and  capture  which  many  converts 
feel — a  capture  that  ends  that  fierce  pursuit  when 
the  quarry  has  no  real  desire  to  escape,  only  per- 
haps to  defer  the  moment  when  he  shall  feel  the 
touch  of  those  Hands  from  which  there  can  be  no 
after-escaping.  It  is  even  possible  that  the  human 
and  earthly  part  of  the  personality  may  have  re- 
sented subconsciously  that  prospect  of  curtailed 
liberty,  that  permanent  submission  to  purely  spir- 


290  THE  REST  HOUSE 

itual  laws,  that  prospective  subjugation  of  the 
body  to  the  needs  of  the  imperious  soul. 

Peggy  had  felt  such  resistance  stirring  within 
her  from  time  to  time,  urging  her  at  least  to  con- 
template the  advantages  that  were  being  offered 
to  her  on  the  temporal  plane  in  place  of  the  gifts 
she  was  seeking.  The  body  had  seemed  to  pro- 
test against  that  comfortless  prospect  of  privation 
and  penury,  just  as  her  heart  had  protested  vio- 
lently against  that  wilful  severance  from  those 
she  loved — especially  from  Peter,  who  was  so 
dear  to  her  and  from  whom  she  had  not  dared 
even  to  take  formal  farewell. 

But  the  soul,  always  more  urgent  in  its  needs 
than  body  or  heart,  when  once  it  has  succeeded  in 
asserting  itself,  had  triumphed  splendidly  in  the 
case  of  Peggy.  She  knew  as  she  knelt  before  the 
Tabernacle  that  morning  in  deep  thanksgiving 
that  she  had  followed  the  only  possible  course. 
She  had  been  called  with  loving  and  mystical  per- 
sistence, and  she  had  answered  gladly  and  will- 
ingly. 

"I  have  come — I  have  come,"  whispered 
Peggy  with  streaming  eyes. 

She  had  no  knowledge  of  the  passing  of  time 
and  was  still  kneeling  there  with  her  face  hidden 
when  the  nun  came  and  touched  her  lightly  on 
the  shoulder  and  said: 

"I  think  you  ought  to  come  and  have  some 
breakfast.  It  is  nearly  ten  o'clock." 

Ten  o'clock?  She  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late. 
Mass  had  been  at  half-past  six,  and  it  had  taken 
barely  half  an  hour.  Peggy  looked  up  in  sur- 
prise and  saw  that  the  chapel  was  now  quite 


THE  REST  HOUSE  291 

empty,  everybody  had  disappeared  except  her- 
self and  the  nun  who  had  come  to  fetch  her.  She 
rose  and  moved  slowly  out  into  the  passage,  hav- 
ing genuflected  and  crossed  herself  with  holy- 
water.  There  was  an  expression  upon  her  face 
as  if  she  were  a  little  bewildered,  perhaps  not 
quite  awake.  It  even  seemed  to  her  that  her  body 
felt  unusually  light  and  small. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IT  was  just  after  luncheon  that  day  that  a  tele- 
gram was  brought  to  her  room.  When  Peggy 
saw  the  fatal  orange-colored  envelope  she  felt 
a  strange  shrinking  at  the  heart,  and  her  hands 
trembled  so  that  she  could  hardly  open  it.  If 
Peggy's  spirit  were  strong  and  willing  her  flesh 
was  almost  contemptibly  weak.  She  opened  the 
envelope  and  drew  out  the  pinkish  slip  of  paper 
it  contained,  and  read  the  following  message : 

"Your  mad  folly  is  breaking  your  mother's 
heart.  Until  you  can  assure  me  that  you  have 
renounced  the  Roman  Catholic  religion  you  shall 
never  enter  my  house,  nor  will  any  one  here  be 
permitted  to  see  or  to  communicate  with  you. 

"JOHN  METCALFE." 

It  was  what  Peggy  had  fully  expected,  per- 
haps a  little  more  cruel  in  its  finality,  but  as  she 
read  it  her  eyes  grew  dim  with  the  burning  tears 
that  scalded  and  seared  them.  She  had  a  sense 
of  truly  desolate  abandonment,  as  if  she  were 
completely  cut  off  from  all  familiar  and  dear 
things.  She  was  never  to  go  back  to  Mildon, 
never  to  see  any  of  her  own  people  again.  And 
Peggy  had  spent  all  her  life  at  home  except  for  an 
occasional  visit  to  one  of  her  sisters;  she  had  no 
intimate  friends  to  whom  she  could  turn.  Yet, 
even  when  she  knew  the  worst  there  was  no  least 
wish  in  her  heart  that  she  had  yielded  or  tem- 
porized or  delayed.  The  bonds  had  to  be  cut, 

292 


THE  REST  HOUSE  293 

and  though  she  emerged  bleeding  and  wounded 
from  the  process  she  knew  she  would  have  severed 
them  with  even  greater  violence  had  it  been  neces- 
sary. All  her  life  from  the  night  she  had  spent 
at  the  Rest  House  had  been  tending  to  this  single 
end.  There  had  been  no  desire  to  evade  it.  It 
had  seemed  rather  as  if  it  formed  part  of  her  fate, 
her  destiny.  No  matter  that  she  felt  at  present 
this  cold  sense  of  isolation  and  abandonment  chill- 
ing even  her  ardent  spiritual  joy,  which  to-day 
had  been  so  complete.  Just  for  the  moment  the 
awful  nightmare  of  exile  was  upon  her  with  such 
force  that  she  felt  it  must  be  a  temptation  that 
had  been  sent  perhaps  to  try  to  diminish  her  per- 
severance. "Of  course  there  are  people  who  are 
strong  enough  to  suffer  every  imaginable  priva- 
tion for  their  Faith.  But  you — you  must  forgive 
me,  Miss  Metcalfe,  if  I  do  most  seriously  doubt 
your  capability  of  being  one  of  them."  She  could 
almost  hear  Morford's  voice  uttering  those  very 
words,  and  the  remembrance  stirred  her  pride. 
She  was  going  to  be  strong — she  was  going  to  cor- 
respond to  those  gifts  and  graces  she  had  re- 
ceived! She  thrust  aside  those  thoughts  of  her 
own  weakness  as  if  they  had  been  poisonous  ser- 
pents. She  was  beginning  to  realize  the  strength- 
ening power  of  those  veiy  graces.  Had  not  God 
chosen  her — called  her  to  Him?  Was  she  too 
weak  to  fling  aside  the  nets  that  had  been,  as  it 
were,  her  means  of  subsistence  and  answer  and 
follow  that  Voice  whither  it  might  choose  to  lead 
her?  She  knelt  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed  and 
with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  crucifix,  Peggy 
prayed. 


294  THE  REST  HOUSE 

A  light  tap  at  the  door  interrupted  her  and 
Monica  West  poked  her  head  in. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  she  began,  but  Peggy  rose 
from  her  knees  and  said  smiling,  "Please  come 
in." 

There  were  still  traces  of  those  recent  tears  on 
her  face. 

"Had  bad  news?"  inquired  Monica,  in  her 
cheery,  sympathetic  manner. 

"Yes,  I've  had  a  telegram  from  home.  They 
won't  let  me  go  back  there,"  said  Peggy. 

"Bad  luck !"  said  Monica.  "I  suppose  you  feel 
very  lonely  and  all  that,  don't  you?" 

Peggy  nodded;  she  could  not  trust  herself  to 
speak. 

"Well,  don't  feel  too  bad  about  it,"  said  Miss 
West;  "you'll  find  it'll  pan  out  much  better  than 
you  expect.  You  are  never  quite  alone  and  with- 
out friends  if  you're  a  Catholic.  Wherever  you 
go  there  is  generally  a  priest  to  whom  you  can 
go  for  advice.  There  are  lots  of  convents  all  over 
the  country  where  you  can  stay  if  you  haven't  any 
money  or  friends  until  you  can  find  something  to 
do.  We  aren't  very  perfect — lots  of  us — but  we 
do  look  after  each  other.  It  makes  a  bond  be- 
tween rich  and  poor.  It's  rather  like  being  part 
of  one  huge  clan.  And  a  woman  I  know  who  had 
traveled  a  great  deal  told  me  once  she  never  felt 
alone  or  strange  in  a  new  place  after  she  had  once 
visited  the  Blessed  Sacrament  there." 

Peggy  found  the  cheery,  brave  words  con- 
soling. 

"Now  I  shouldn't  waste  any  time  if  I  were 
you,"  continued  Monica.  "Tell  Reverend  Mother 


THE  REST  HOUSE  295 

just  what  they've  said  and  ask  her  to  help  you 
to  find  something  to  do.  And  then  if  I  were  you 
I  should  go  and  see  the  priest  who  received  you 
and  talk  to  him  about  it.  You  are  so  young  that 
you  oughtn't  to  do  anything  without  asking  ad- 
vice!" 

"I  will  go  and  see  him  this  afternoon,"  said 
Peggy.  A  great  wish  to  go  down  to  the  Rest 
House,  to  spend  a  few  days  there  in  the  quiet  and 
peace  of  it,  had  come  over  her.  She  felt,  too,  a 
wish  to  go  and  make  a  thanksgiving  in  the  little 
chapel  where  her  conversion  had  really  taken 
place.  She  would  ask  Father  FitzGerald,  but  she 
was  almost  certain  he  would  approve  of  the  idea. 
Afterward  she  could  return  to  the  convent  and 
try  and  find  a  situation. 

"I  think  you  had  better  write  a  line  to  them 
first  and  say  that  you  are  coming,"  he  said  when 
Peggy  consulted  him  on  the  point.  "It  might  not 
be  convenient  for  them  to  receive  you,  and  also 
they  might  be  away  from  home  and  then  you 
would  have  had  the  long  journey  for  nothing." 

"I  will  write  at  once,"  said  Peggy,  "but  I  am 
sure  Miss  Morf ord  will  be  there ;  she  never  leaves 
home.  And  she  is  very  kind — I  know  she  will  not 
refuse." 

When  Peggy  returned  to  the  convent  that 
afternoon  she  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to 
Mary  Morf  ord,  telling  her  that  she  had  just  been 
received,  and  that  she  had  been  forbidden  to  re- 
turn to  Mildon.  "I  am  homeless  now,"  she  wrote, 
"and  it  would  be  very  kind  of  you  to  let  me  come 
for  two  nights.  I  want  to  see  your  chapel  again. 
If  it  is  not  convenient  please  send  me  a  telegram; 


296  THE  REST  HOUSE 

if  not,  I  will  come  by  the  afternoon  train  on 
Thursday." 

She  had  hardly  finished  when  Monica  West 
again  tapped  at  her  door. 

"Oh,  you're  back!"  she  said.  "I'm  just  going 
out  myself.  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  mind  posting  this  let- 
ter for  me?"  said  Peggy,  hastily  sealing  the  en- 
velope. "I  want  it  to  go  as  soon  as  possible." 

She  held  out  the  letter  to  Monica,  who  took  it, 
saying  : 

"Of  course  I  will.  If  I  were  you  I'd  lie  down 
for  a  bit.  Benediction  isn't  till  six." 

She  went  away  and  Peggy  took  her  advice  and 
lay  down  on  the  bed.  It  was  very  cold  in  her 
room  and  she  put  a  rug  over  her.  She  was  glad 
the  letter  to  Mary  Morford  had  gone  and  she 
felt  a  little  thrill  of  excitement  at  the  thought 
of  going  back  there.  In  all  this  she  scarcely 
thought  of  Frederick  Morford  at  all.  Perhaps, 
indeed,  he  would  hardly  remember  her.  It  was 
Mary  whom  she  wished  most  passionately  to  see, 
Mary  with  her  serene  smile  and  kind,  light  blue 
eyes.  She  was  not  beautiful  with  her  square, 
strong  figure,  her  plainly  dressed  red  hair,  her 
shabby  clothes,  and  yet  there  was  beauty  in  that 
tranquil,  serene,  contented  expression  of  hers. 
One  felt  on  looking  at  her  that  her  soul  was  as 
clear  as  crystal,  that  her  mind  was  too  pure  ever 
to  have  harbored  a  bad  or  even  unworthy  thought. 
Peggy  felt  that  she  could  throw  herself  on  Mary's 
mercy  and  kindness  now,  and  speak  to  her  freely 
of  all  she  had  gone  through  since  last  she  had 
spent  the  night  under  her  roof.  It  formed  quite  a 


THE  REST  HOUSE  297 

little  history — unfinished,  it  is  true,  but  consecu- 
tive and  inevitable.  Perhaps  Frederick  would 
not  even  be  there  to  disturb  her  long  conversa- 
tions with  Mary.  She  hoped  that  he  might  be 
away  from  home,  perhaps  staying  with  the  Dai- 
tons,  as  he  was  so  soon  to  be  a  son  of  the  house. 
No  telegram  came  for  her  on  the  following  day, 
so  on  Thursday  she  left  the  convent,  taking  with 
her  only  a  little  box  with  just  the  few  things  she 
thought  she  would  require  for  such  a  short  visit, 
having  packed  the  rest  away  in  her  trunks,  which 
were  to  be  left  at  the  convent  until  her  return. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  afternoon  train  which  ran  in  connection 
with  the  branch  line  from  Bath  to  Hintle- 
combe  left  Paddington  about  two  o'clock.  Peggy 
had  never  traveled  quite  alone  before;  she  had 
certainly  never  bought  her  own  ticket  in  her  life ; 
there  had  always  been  her  maid  or  Peter  to  do  this 
for  her.  The  noise  and  bustle  of  the  great  Lon- 
don terminus  confused  and  bewildered  her.  She 
took  a  third-class  ticket  to  Hintlecombe,  which 
she  remembered  Mary  had  said  was  their  near- 
est station;  although  they  generally  used  Cold- 
ford,  which  was  more  convenient  in  spite  of  its 
being  further  away,  as  there  were  better  trains. 
She  bought  a  third-class  ticket  because  she  had 
already  spent  ten  shillings  of  her  five  pounds  in 
cabs  and  tips  and  she  knew  the  money  could  not 
last  forever.  The  train  was  very  crowded,  and  to 
Peggy  there  seemed  an  immense  number  of 
people  gathered  on  the  platform.  Some  of  them 
looked  preoccupied,  others  were  attending  in  a 
businesslike  way  to  their  luggage,  many  were 
pressing  round  the  newsstands  to  buy  newspapers 
and  magazines  wherewith  to  beguile  their  jour- 
ney. Peggy  did  not  buy  any  papers;  she 
felt  no  wish  to  read.  She  wanted  to  think  hard 
during  the  few  hours'  journey  to  Hintlecombe. 
She  got  into  the  train,  gave  sixpence  timidly  to 
the  porter  who  had  looked  after  her  luggage  and 
found  her  a  seat,  and  then  she  crept  into  the 
farther  corner  of  the  compartment.  She  was 

298 


THE  REST  HOUSE  299 

afraid  of  being  seen  by  some  one  she  knew,  and  of 
being  addressed  and  perhaps  questioned.  What 
would  her  mother  say  if  she  could  see  her  as  she 
was  now,  traveling  alone  in  a  third-class  carriage  ? 

It  was  only  when  the  train  had  started  that  any 
doubt  as  to  her  welcome  at  the  Rest  House  began 
to  assail  her.  It  is  true  that  she  had  not  received 
any  answer  from  Mary,  but  then  she  had  told  her 
to  telegraph  only  if  her  coming  should  prove 
inconvenient.  It  was  extremely  unlikely  that 
Mary  could  be  away  from  home,  as  Father  Fitz- 
Gerald  had  suggested,  for  she  had  assured  Peggy 
that  she  very  seldom  left  the  Rest  House.  Still, 
she  began  to  feel  that  she  would  rather  have 
known  for  certain  that  she  would  find  Mary  at 
the  end  of  her  journey. 

The  train  was  traveling  through  the  unlovely 
western  suburbs  of  London.  Cheerless  fields 
spread  out  on  either  hand.  Even  the  beautiful 
Thames  Valley,  through  which  they  were  so 
soon  speeding,  had  lost  something  of  its  loveli- 
ness in  the  gray  and  bleak  chill  of  the  November 
day.  There  was  a  slight  fog,  too,  which  blurred 
everything  and  seemed  to  shorten  still  more  the 
hours  of  daylight.  The  river  was  steel-colored, 
the  woods  that  clothed  its  banks  were  like  brown 
blots,  the  fields  had  a  sodden  aspect.  Overhead 
was  a  sky  of  monotonous  gray.  The  distance 
was  quite  obscured  by  the  fog.  Very  soon  the  day 
merged  dismally  into  twilight,  and  as  darkness 
came  on  a  little  fear  began  to  creep  anew  into 
poor  Peggy's  heart.  She  wished  that  she  had 
come  by  an  earlier  train;  she  reflected  for  the 
first  time  that  it  would  be  perfectly  dark  before 


300  THE  REST  HOUSE 

she  reached  Hintlecombe.  How  incompetent  she 
was  to  arrange  even  a  short  journey  for  herself! 
She  had  not  had  time  to  discuss  those  details  with 
Father  FitzGerald  or  the  Reverend  Mother,  but 
she  could  at  least  have  consulted  Monica  West, 
who  was  accustomed  to  do  things  for  herself.  At 
Bath  she  got  out  and  there  she  learned  for  the 
first  time  that  she  would  have  to  drive  across 
the  town  to  the  Midland  station  in  order  to  take 
the  train  for  Hintlecombe.  There  would  be  just 
time  for  her  to  catch  it,  the  porter  said,  but  the 
very  knowledge  that  there  was  a  chance  of  miss- 
ing it  and  of  finding  herself  stranded  for  the 
night  terrified  Peggy.  She  was  feeling  very 
tired  and  cold  and  alone;  she  began  to  wish  she 
had  not  left  London. 

Night  had  fallen  as  she  drove  through  the 
city,  but  the  streets  were  well  lighted  and  the 
electric  lamps  lit  up  the  old  blackened  houses, 
and  she  could  see  the  Abbey  standing  a  dark, 
solid  mass  with  its  fine  tower  outlined  obscurely 
against  the  night  sky.  Boys  were  hawking  news- 
papers and  shouting  much  as  they  did  in  the 
streets  of  London,  but  there  was  less  noise  and 
less  traffic.  The  cab  was  an  open  one  and  it  was 
drawn  by  a  strong  horse  that  went  at  a  quick 
pace  over  the  cobbled  roads.  The  rush  of  cold 
air  against  her  brow  revived  Peggy  and  gave 
her  courage.  It  was  a  relief,  too,  to  find  when 
she  arrived  at  the  Midland  station  that  the  train 
to  Hintlecombe  had  not  left. 

Soon  she  was  sitting  in  a  damp,  cheerless  com- 
partment with  black,  shiny  seats  and  a  boarded, 
carpetless  floor  that  struck  cold  to  her  feet.  It 


THE  REST  HOUSE  301 

was  not  very  clean,  and  there  were  crumbs  on 
the  seats  and  scraps  of  orange  peel  on  the  floor, 
as  if  people  had  been  feasting  there.  Presently 
two  poorly  clad  women  got  into  the  carriage. 
Their  clothing  gave  forth  a  peculiar  odor  that 
Peggy  found  very  horrible.  They  closed  both 
the  windows,  and  the  atmosphere  became  close  in 
spite  of  the  cold.  Peggy,  forlorn  and  chilled, 
could  hardly  keep  from  crying.  She  felt  that 
she  never  wished  to  travel  alone  again  without  a 
maid  to  look  after  her  and  see  that  she  was  in  a 
comfortable  carriage  with  hot-water  tins  for 
her  feet. 

The  train  was  late,  and  it  was  six  o'clock  be- 
fore she  reached  Hintlecombe  after  innumerable 
stops  at  small  stations  on  the  way.  Her  two 
companions  had  long  since  left  her,  but  other 
people  had  got  in  at  different  stations  and  she 
had  never  once  been  alone.  All  in  turn  had 
stared  at  Peggy,  perhaps  wondering  what  she 
was  doing  there  with  her  fine  clothes  and  furs. 
By  the  time  she  reached  Hintlecombe  the  rain 
had  begun  to  fall  heavily  and  persistently.  The 
station  was  little  more  than  a  series  of  small 
sheds,  and  her  feet  became  soaked  as  she  walked 
down  the  platform  exposed  to  rain  and  wind, 
the  chill  country  air  blowing  sharply  in  her  face. 

"Any  one  comin'  to  meet  you,  miss?"  inquired 
the  solitary  porter,  coming  up  and  touching  his 
cap. 

There  were  one  or  two  large  houses  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  though  their  guests  did  not 
normally  travel  third  class,  such  a  thing  was  not 
unknown  in  these  democratic  days.  But  Peggy's 


302  THE  REST  HOUSE 

dress  and  appearance  were  quite  consistent  with 
some  one  on  her  way  to  one  of  those  exalted 
habitations. 

"No,"  said  Peggy.  Her  teeth  chattered  and 
her  lips  were  so  cold  she  could  hardly  pronounce 
the  word.  All  the  excitement  had  gone  out  of 
the  adventure  and  her  courage  was  at  a  low  ebb. 
"Can  I  get  a  cab,  do  you  think?"  she  asked.  "I 
am  going  to  the  Rest  House." 

In  the  flickering  light  of  the  oil  lamp  that  was 
suspended  above  the  waiting-room  it  seemed  to 
her  sensitive  imagination  that  a  faint  look  of  sur- 
prise came  over  the  man's  face. 

"Rest  House  be  five  mile  up  on  the  wold,"  he 
said.  "I  doubt  if  you'll  get  anything  to  take 
you  up  there  to-night.  Road's  baddish,  too,  and 
what  with  this  weather  and  all — "  He  shook 
his  head  doubtfully.  Ideas  came  slowly  to  his 
mind;  he  was  little  accustomed  to  dealing  with 
problems  of  the  sort.  People  were  either  met 
or  they  walked,  or  synchronized  their  coming 
so  as  to  avail  themselves  of  the  carrier's  cart, 
which  met  the  earlier  train  three  times  a  week. 
"But  if  Jebb  ain't  gone,  mizzy,  he  might  give 
you  a  lift  as  far  as  the  Three  Lanes,  and  mebbe 
you  could  walk  that  bit  o'  the  rest.  If  zo  be 
as  he  can  take  you,  your  box  can  be  sent  on  by 
the  carrier  to-morrow." 

"Jebb?"  repeated  Peggy  interrogatively. 
Who  was  this  Jebb  upon  whose  favor  her  slender 
chance  of  arriving  at  the  Rest  House  that  night 
depended  ? 

"Jebb's  the  baker  at  Stone  Cross — four  mile 
away.  He's  been  in  to  Bath  on  business  to-day, 


THE  REST  HOUSE  303 

miss.  I'll  go  and  see  if  zo  be  as  he's  started. 
Jebb  loikes  his  drop  before  he  goes — to  keep  the 
cold  out,  mizzy!" 

He  chuckled  as  he  stumbled  away,  leaving 
Peggy  alone  on  the  platform.  She  crept  into  the 
shelter  of  the  waiting-room.  It  was  furnished 
after  the  manner  of  its  kind,  with  two  wooden 
seats  against  the  walls,  which  were  hung  with 
time-tables ;  a  round,  shabby  table  with  a  stained 
top  on  which  rested  a  discolored  carafe  and  glass ; 
a  fireplace  in  which  only  a  few  cinders  were  vis- 
ible, protected  by  an  iron  guard.  An  oil  lamp 
that  smelt  evilly  also  stood  on  the  table;  it  had 
evidently  been  smoking,  for  the  glass  was  black- 
ened up  one  side.  The  floor  was  wet  and  soiled 
with  mud  stains  from  the  feet  of  former  occu- 
pants. 

It  was  a  cheerless  place  enough,  but  it  pro- 
vided some  sort  of  shelter  from  the  inclement 
conditions  that  prevailed  without,  and  Peggy  sat 
down  almost  thankfully  upon  one  of  the  wooden 
benches  and  waited  in  apathetic  silence.  Her 
physical  misery  was  almost  complete  and  she 
seemed  to  be  in  the  midst  of  a  dreadful  dream. 
As  she  sat  there  her  mind  traveled  back  to  Mil- 
don,  and  she  had  a  kind  of  swift  and  alluring 
vision  of  the  library  at  that  hour.  When  there 
were  no  guests  Lady  Metcalfe  often  sat  in  that 
room  instead  of  in  the  drawing-room  during  the 
winter  months.  It  was  more  cosy,  she  affirmed. 
Peggy  could  see  the  generous  fire,  piled  high  with 
logs  and  coal,  and  her  mother  sitting  there  with 
a  table  by  her  side,  to  which  she  would  turn  occa- 
sionally to  regard  with  perfunctory  interest  the 


304  THE  REST  HOUSE 

newest  illustrated  papers  and  magazines.  Per- 
haps the  tea-table  would  still  be  there,  loaded 
with  sandwiches,  cakes,  and  fruit  in  case  her 
father  and  Peter  should  require  tea  on  their  re- 
turn from  town.  She  could  see,  too,  the  fine 
carved  ceiling  and  mantelpiece;  the  rows  and 
rows  of  polished-looking  books — books  that  no 
one  ever  dreamed  of  reading.  And  she  had  for- 
feited it  all!  She  was  sitting  here  alone  in  the 
darkness  that  seemed  to  be  pressing  upon  her 
heart.  For  she  had  always  loved  her  home,  had 
never  wished  to  leave  it  as  so  many  girls  do.  It 
had  always  offered  her  sufficient  interest,  suffi- 
cient pleasure  and  occupation,  had  given  her  all 
that  she  required  until  her  visit  to  the  Rest  House 
nearly  a  year  ago.  The  sense  of  exile  was  very 
strong  upon  her  then,  and  a  little  thought  crept 
into  her  mind  that  she  did  not  at  first  recognize 
as  a  subtle  temptation.  Had  she  perhaps  been 
wrong  in  her  disobedience,  and  was  God  going 
to  punish  her?  It  was  a  terrible  thought,  and  as 
she  envisaged  it  she  pictured  herself  returning  to 
Mildon,  contrite  and  penitent,  and  begging 
humbly  for  admission  on  the  only  terms  her 
•father  would  accept. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  for  Peggy  then  to 
have  escaped  altogether  from  the  sentimental 
weakness  of  self-pity.  She  had  gone  forth  so 
full  of  high  courage  and  resolve,  so  full  of  pas- 
sionate zeal  for  the  Faith  for  which  she  was  pre- 
pared to  sacrifice  all,  and  then  little  by  little  the 
desolation  of  the  cold  and  darkness  had  chilled 
her  heart  to  a  kind  of  despair.  The  martyrs, 
whose  histories  fascinated  her  and  imbued  her 


THE  REST  HOUSE  305 

with  courage,  had  only  had  to  face  perhaps  one 
splendid  and  dreadful  hour  of  fierce  flame  or 
physical  torment  before  death  released  them. 
But  she  had  to  face  endless  days — all  the  days 
of  her  life — spreading  out  in  gray  succession — 
days  of  privation,  want,  pain,  and  loneliness; 
days  of  bitter  dependence  upon  strangers.  She 
would  know  the  slow  process  of  wearing  down 
that  can  subdue  the  proudest  spirit  and  break  the 
highest  resolve. 

The  rain  pattered  down  upon  the  iron  roof 
with  an  almost  savage  persistence,  its  steady 
drip-drip  seemed  to  be  beating  upon  her  brain. 
She  tried  to  think  of  the  Rest  House,  and  of 
Miss  Mary  coming  out  to  greet  her  just  as  she 
had  done  before,  but  with  an  increased  friendli- 
ness and  pleasure,  as  if  her  coming  to  them  under 
her  new  and  changed  circumstances  were  just  a 
matter  of  course.  But  alas,  the  Rest  House  lay 
five  miles  away  across  those  lonely  and  desolate 
hills,  and  even  if  Jebb  were  propitious,  she  would 
have  to  walk  at  least  one  long  mile  through  de- 
serted lanes,  exposed  to  she  knew  not  what  of 
danger.  Then  the  remembrance  of  the  day  when 
she  and  Peter  had  trudged  through  those  very 
lanes  together,  their  feet  deep  in  snow,  came  back 
with  a  strange  clearness  to  her  mind.  But  Peter 
had  been  by  her  side  then  and  she  had  enjoyed 
the  adventure  with  all  the  careless  zest  of  youth. 
A  whole  lifetime  seemed  to  separate  her  from 
that  thoughtless  girl  of  a  year  ago — the  girl 
whose  dissatisfactions  were  so  formless,  whose 
worst  troubles  had  been  the  childish  ones  of  re- 
proof and  punishment,  who  had  only  vaguely  felt 


306  THE  BEST  HOUSE 

that  something  was  yet  lacking  in  the  midst  of 
all  that  ease  and  luxury.  And  then  the  awaken- 
ing! That,  at  least,  was  surely  an  experience 
that  had  brought  with  it  a  definite  message.  She 
was  angry  with  herself  now  for  those  fugitive, 
rebellious  thoughts  that  had  assailed  her  through 
her  very  physical  discomfort.  Oh — he  had  been 
right  after  all — she  was  one  of  the  weak  ones  who 
could  not  suffer  a  moment's  privation  without 
complaint ! 

It  seemed  a  very  long  time  before  the  porter 
returned,  and  his  appearance  suggested  he  had 
spent  at  least  a  portion  of  the  interim  in  joining 
the  unknown  Jebb  in  his  efforts  to  keep  the  cold 
out.  But  Peggy  had  already  heard  the  welcome 
sound  of  an  approaching  cart  and  had  sprung  to 
her  feet  with  a  ray  of  hope  in  her  heart. 

"Jebb  be  waiting,  mizzy,"  the  porter  informed 
her. 

Peggy  followed  him  down  to  the  end  of  a  plat- 
form where  a  gate  led  into  the  lane  opening  into 
the  station  yard.  A  rough  cart  stood  there  and 
in  the  obscurity  it  appeared  to  her  so  high  as  to 
be  almost  inaccessible.  The  prospect  of  a  long 
drive  with  an  unknown  man  whose  driving  ability 
was  unknown  to  her  in  such  a  conveyance  made 
Peggy's  heart  sink  anew.  On  a  high  box-seat 
sat  a  man  with  a  mackintosh  coat  pulled  up  to 
his  ears,  and  a  rough  tweed  cap  pulled  down 
almost  to  his  nose.  The  purple  wedge  of  face 
visible  between  the  two  garments  did  little  to 
reassure  her. 

"Get  up,  mizzy,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse,  muffled 
tone. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  307 

Peggy  pulled  out  a  shilling  and  gave  it  to  the 
porter.  Then  with  some  difficulty,  as  her  fur  coat 
was  thick  and  heavy  and  impeded  her  movements, 
she  climbed  up  on  to  the  seat  beside  him.  The 
ground  looked  to  her  very  far  away. 

"I  hope  the  horse  is  quiet,"  she  said. 

"Quiet  as  a  lamb  if  nothink  don't  come  along 
to  dizturb  un,"  he  replied  reassuringly. 

They  started  forth  down  the  hill  and  along  the 
principal  street  of  Hintlecombe.  A  single  lamp 
sufficed  apparently  for  its  illumination.  Owing 
to  the  rain  there  were  very  few  people  about. 
When  the  village  was  past,  a  long  hill  rose  before 
them;  it  was  like  going  forward  into  complete 
darkness  which  the  two  small  lamps  on  the  cart 
did  little  to  mitigate.  But  she  was  well  on  her 
way  now  to  the  Rest  House,  and  even  the  pros- 
pect of  doing  that  last  dread  mile  on  foot  could 
not  quite  diminish  her  intense  relief. 

Jebb  was  not  at  all  communicative,  for  that  is 
not  the  Somersetshire  way;  and  even  his  recent 
refreshment  had  done  nothing  to  loosen  his 
tongue.  If  Peggy  questioned  him,  he  responded 
in  a  monosyllable.  And  there  was  something 
about  her  that  mystified  and  perplexed  him.  She 
was  to  all  appearances  a  "voine  loidy,"  as  he 
would  have  expressed  it,  and  what  she  might 
want  with  the  young  master  of  the  Rest  House 
was  no  concern  of  his.  He  did  not  supply  the 
Morfords  with  bread  for  the  simple  reason  that 
they  baked  their  own.  "Queer  Papist  lot  who 
durzn't  even  go  to  Church  on  Zunday  like  any 
other  Christians,"  Jebb  would  have  said  had  any 
one  questioned  him  about  the  inhabitants  of  that 


308  THE  REST  HOUSE 

lonely  abode.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  gossip 
about  the  Morfords  in  the  country  around 
Hintlecombe.  That  they  were  Catholics — the 
only  ones  in  that  rural  district — made  their  go- 
ings-out and  comings-in  things  of  unsolved  mys- 
tery, and  seemed  to  separate  them  from  their 
neighbors  as  completely  as  if  they  had  been  Hin- 
doos of  an  exclusive  caste.  In  native  parlance 
they  "kept  their  selves  to  their  selves"  and  were 
known  to  worship  the  "Virgin  Mary"  like  the 
idolaters  they  were.  The  Church  of  England 
parson  living  in  a  sumptuous  rectory  in  Hintle- 
combe and  who  also  conducted  a  fortnightly 
service  at  Stone  Cross,  adopted  a  tolerant  if 
slightly  contemptuous  attitude  toward  that  poor 
little  mission  across  the  hills.  The  dissenting 
minister,  who  had  a  larger  following  and  who  was 
locally  famous  as  a  preacher,  was  wont  to  shake 
his  head  and  murmur  dark  and  ominous  allusions 
to  the  Scarlet  Woman  when  he  heard  the  place 
mentioned.  The  village  cobbler,  who  belonged 
to  another  sect  and  was  also  something  of  a 
preacher,  usually  contented  himself  by  saying, 
"We  don't  want  no  popery  'ere!" 

If  Peggy  had  been  bound  for  Sir  Arthur 
Denby's  huge  Grange  at  Stone  Cross,  or  the 
Radlett's  mansion  over  by  Incherton,  Jebb  would 
gladly  have  driven  her  the  whole  way  regardless 
of  his  own  convenience  on  this  wet,  stormy  night. 
But  he  would  not  go  a  step  out  of  his  appointed 
way  to  take  any  benighted  traveler  to  the  Rest 
House. 

So  at  the  Three  Lanes,  a  bleak  spot  sur- 
mounted by  what  is  locally  known  as  a  handing- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  309 

post,  bearing  the  three  inscriptions,  "To  Hintle- 
combe,"  "To  Stone  Cross,"  and  "To  Incherton," 
Peggy  was  constrained  to  dismount  from  her 
high  perch.  Her  feet  sank  deeply  with  a  squelch 
into  the  mud  of  the  road.  It  was  very  dark,  there 
was  not  a  light  to  be  seen  and  a  forlorn  terror 
seized  her. 

She  took  half  a  crown  out  of  her  bag  (a  sum 
which  Jebb  contemptuously  regarded  as  incom- 
mensurate with  the  finery  of  her  apparel)  and 
said  piteously: 

"Oh,  please,  is  it  very  far?  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
never  find  the  way." 

Jebb  was  untouched  by  the  appeal  in  her 
voice.  Inwardly  he  thought  it  might  prove  a 
beneficial  lesson,  "laming  her"  not  to  seek  the 
habitations  of  young  men  at  a  late  hour  on  winter 
nights. 

"You  can't  mizz  it,  mizzy,"  he  replied  with  a 
grin;  "keep  on  down  the  lane  for  a  moile  and  a 
bittuck  and  you'll  see  the  lights  of  the  Rest 
House  on  your  left.  Keep  close  to  the  hedge 
and  you  can't  mizz  it.  You'll  find  the  road  a 
bit  baddish,"  he  added  by  way  of  a  parting  con- 
solation. 

"Zarves  her  right  for  being  a  shameless  hussy," 
he  chuckled  to  himself  as  he  drove  off  in  the  teeth 
of  the  wind  to  his  own  comfortable  quarters  at 
Stone  Cross,  where  the  missus  would  have  pre- 
pared a  tasty  supper  against  his  return.  "Goin' 
arter  a  young  man  at  this  time  o'  day!  And 
who'd  a  thought  it  of  young  Morford?  Givin' 
'imself  such  airs,  too,  as  if  he  wur  a  pattern. 
Well,  well,  still  waters  run  deep!" 


310  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Unconscious  of  the  calumnious  interpretation 
placed  upon  her  action,  Peggy  stumbled  off  down 
the  lane  in  the  direction  indicated  by  Mr.  Jebb. 
She  followed  his  advice  so  churlishly  proffered 
and  kept  close  to  the  hedge,  but  her  feet  sank 
deeply  into  the  long  grass  and  she  could  feel  the 
wet  penetrating  the  soles  of  her  not  over-thick 
shoes.  Her  skirt  was  fairly  short,  but  skirts  have 
a  habit  of  growing  in  wet  weather,  as  most 
women  must  have  discovered,  and  its  soused  rim 
slapped  painfully  against  her  ankles  as  she 
walked.  The  effort  fatigued  her,  for  the  wind 
was  strong  and  the  rain  beat  pitilessly  upon  her. 
Once  a  man  passed ;  he  was  whistling  and  did  not 
seem  to  notice  her.  Afterward  she  wished  she 
had  had  the  courage  to  stop  him  and  ask  how 
much  farther  it  was  to  the  Rest  House.  The 
mile  was  a  very  long  one — it  seemed  to  Peggy 
much  more  like  three — and  it  was  a  long  time 
before  she  discerned  across  the  fields  to  the  left 
the  glimmer  of  light  that  she  felt  sure  must  belong 
to  the  Rest  House.  She  pushed  open  the  ancient 
five-barred  gate,  and  began  her  dreary  pilgrim- 
age across  the  rough  farm  track. 

Here  the  deep  ruts  were  filled  with  water  and 
her  feet  splashed  with  every  step  she  took. 
Everything  about  her  had  become  terribly  heavy, 
her  shoes,  her  skirt,  her  fur  coat  and  the  little 
bag  she  was  carrying.  She  had  long  ago  relin- 
quished the  effort  of  holding  up  her  umbrella. 
She  was  dreadfully  tired  and  exhausted  after  that 
long  tramp  down  the  muddy  lanes. 

The  light  glimmered  uncertainly  from  the 
grove  of  trees,  and  as  she  approached  them  the 


THE  REST  HOUSE  311 

prospect  of  shelter  made  her  quicken  her  foot- 
steps a  little.  It  was  so  near  now — that  little 
haven  of  peace  and  rest. 

As  she  went  up  to  the  front  door  she  heard  a 
clock  striking  eight  within.  The  sound  startled 
her.  Certainly  she  must  have  been  walking  a 
very  long  time,  but  she  had  no  idea  it  was  so 
late.  She  hoped  that  Mary  would  not  think  it 
inconsiderate  of  her  to  descend  upon  them  at 
such  a  late  hour.  Peggy  flushed  as  this  thought 
occurred  to  her  like  a  vague  forerunner  of  evil. 
She  began  to  doubt  Mary's  reception  of  her ;  she 
saw  in  herself  the  unwelcome,  self-invited  guest. 

Why  should  she  disturb  the  tranquillity  of 
these  people  whom  she  knew  so  little? 

Now  the  high  branches  of  the  pines  were  toss- 
ing darkly  above  her  head  against  the  thick,  star- 
less night  sky.  Their  murmuring  was  sustained, 
like  the  waves  of  a  restless,  unquiet  sea.  Peggy 
nervously  looked  up  at  the  house,  and  saw  that  it 
was  all  in  darkness ;  there  were  no  lights  to-night 
in  any  of  the  windows.  The  light  she  had  seen 
must  have  been  the  solitary  one  that  burned  be- 
fore the  Blessed  Sacrament  in  the  chapel.  Per- 
haps every  one  was  away.  Her  letter  to  Mary 
might  have  miscarried.  A  hundred  sinister  pos- 
sibilities thronged  to  her  mind.  In  her  agitation 
she  almost  forgot  to  ring  the  bell. 

When  she  did  so  the  sound  seemed  to  echo  and 
echo  as  if  the  house  within  were  empty 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IT  WAS  a  long  time  before  any  answer  came, 
and  Peggy  was  just  summoning  up  courage 
to  lift  her  hand  and  ring  again  when  she  heard 
a  movement  as  of  footsteps  in  the  hall,  and  a 
voice  that  she  could  not  fail  to  recognize  ex- 
claimed : 

"It's  all  right,  Martha — don't  you  come.  I'll 
open  the  door." 

The  very  sound  of  it  ringing  clear  and  decisive 
made  Peggy's  heart  beat  with  an  almost  sicken- 
ing violence. 

Then  the  door  was  flung  open  and  she  saw 
Frederick  Morford  standing  there,  his  great, 
broad  figure  outlined  darkly  in  strong  relief 
against  the  light  of  the  hall  within.  Almost  in- 
stinctively she  shrank  back  into  the  shadows  so 
that  he  might  not  see  her  face. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  demanded,  and  she  fancied  that 
she  could  detect  a  touch  of  irritability  and  resent- 
ment at  being  disturbed  at  such  an  unusual  hour. 
"Who  is  it,"  he  repeated,  "and  what  do  you 
want?" 

Peggy  made  a  step  forward  and  now  the  light 
fell  upon  her  face  and  revealed  it,  pale  and 
troubled,  to  the  astonished  gaze  of  Frederick 
Morford. 

"Please — I  am  Peggy  Metcalfe,"  she  said  in 
a  trembling  voice  that  threatened  to  break  with 
fatigue  and  emotion.  It  was  with  difficulty  that 

312 


THE  REST  HOUSE  313 

she  could  repress  her  tears.  But  if  she  were  to 
weep  now  he  would  surely  only  consider  her  a 
thousand  times  more  weak  and  foolish  than  he  did 
already ! 

"Miss  Metcalfe!"  he  repeated,  and  now  there 
was  no  doubt  about  the  effect  her  name  had  had 
upon  him,  for  there  was  both  horror  and  conster- 
nation in  his  voice  as  he  uttered  the  words  with 
an  emphasis  that  pierced  poor  Peggy  like  a 
sword. 

The  wind  blew  a  gust  of  rain  against  his  face 
and  it  was  with  difficulty  he  could  hold  the  door 
open. 

"For  goodness'  sake  come  in  now  you  are 
here!"  he  exclaimed,  and  he  almost  pulled  her  into 
the  hall.  The  door  slammed  to  with  a  crash  that 
shook  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  Peggy  and 
Morf ord  stood  facing  each  other  in  silence. 

She  scarcely  realized  what  a  dripping,  discon- 
solate little  figure  she  must  look.  The  water 
streamed  from  her  shoes  and  clothes  and  made 
little  puddles  on  the  worn  linoleum  of  the  hall. 
She  was  very  cold  and  very  tired  and  extremely 
miserable,  and  Morford's  rough  manner,  his 
astonishment  at  seeing  her,  the  horrified  expres- 
sion in  his  face  as  he  had  repeated  her  name,  had 
frightened  her.  He  made  her  feel  that  she  had 
done  wrong  to  come — that  she  of  all  people  in 
the  world  was  the  most  unwanted  and  the  most 
unwelcome ! 

"Why  have  you  come?"  he  said  at  last.  His 
annoyance  was  increased  by  his  utter  bewilder- 
ment and  mystification;  it  was  as  if  in  his  eyes 
her  intrusion  were  perfectly  unwarrantable. 


314  THE  REST  HOUSE 

"How  did  you  come?    But  I  need  not  ask  that; 
you  must  have  walked  for  miles/' 

Even  the  girl's  pitiable  appearance  did  not 
soften  him. 

"I  walked  from  the  Three  Lanes,"  Peggy  said. 
"A  man  called  Jebb  drove  me  as  far  as  that 
from  Hintlecombe — I  could  not  get  a  cab.  Did 
not  your  sister  tell  you  that  I  was  coming?  Oh, 
I  am  sorry  it  is  so  inconvenient,  but  I  told  her 
to  be  sure  and  send  me  a  telegram  if  she  couldn't 
have  me." 

Morford  did  not  speak  but  continued  to  gaze 
at  her  in  astonished  surprise. 

"Won't  you  tell  her  that  I'm  here?  I  came— 
I  was  sure  she  would  not  refuse  to  receive  me. 
She  was  so  kind  to  us  last  year.  And  I  felt 
somehow  that  she  would  help  me.  Do  please 
tell  her  that  I've  come — don't  please  send  me 
away.  I  am  so  very  tired." 

The  strange  expression  deepened  upon  Mor- 
ford's  face,  accentuating  the  rugged  hardness 
of  its  lines. 

"I  can  not  go  and  tell  Mary,"  he  said,  "for  the 
simple  reason  that  she  is  not  here.  And  there 
have  been  no  letters  for  her  this  past  week — of 
that  I  am  quite  certain.  I  have  seen  everything 
in  the  way  of  letters  that  has  come  to  the  house." 

But  Peggy  was  paying  no  attention  to  the  last 
part  of  his  speech;  her  mind  was  occupied  with 
the  single  thought  of  Mary's  absence.  Why  was 
she  away — just  now  of  all  times?  She  who  so 
seldom  left  home  at  all.  What  dreadful  mis- 
chance was  this? 

"Is  it  possible,"  he  continued,  "that  you  are 


THE  REST  HOUSE  315 

unaware  of  all  that  has  happened  here  this  year? 
My  father  died,"  he  crossed  himself  and  bowed 
his  head  slightly,  "last  July,  and  Mary  has  gone 
into  a  convent.  She  has  been  gone  three  months. 
I  knew  she  wished  it  very  much  and  I  could  not 
be  so  selfish  as  to  try  to  keep  her  here.  I  am 
alone  here  except  for  old  Martha,  our  nurse,  who 
came  to  look  after  things  when  Mary  went  away. 
Even  Father  Denis  is  not  here — he  has  been  ill 
and  went  to  Bath  last  week." 

As  he  uttered  this  speech  slowly  and  care- 
fully as  if  to  assure  himself  that  Peggy  should 
miss  nothing  of  its  dire  import,  it  seemed  to  the 
girl  that  the  very  ground  had  been  cut  away 
from  beneath  her  feet.  Mary  was  in  a  convent- 
Mary  was  a  nun!  And  Frederick  was  alone 
here  except  for  one  old  servant.  Ignorant  as  she 
was  of  the  ways  of  the  world,  sheltered  as  she  had 
always  been  from  all  knowledge  of  evil,  Peggy 
knew  enough  to  be  instantly  aware  that  her  pres- 
ence at  the  Rest  House  was  imprudent  and  un- 
conventional, and  that  by  coming  thither  she  had 
placed  herself  in  a  false  and  untenable  position. 

"But  I  can  not  imagine  in  the  least  what 
possessed  you  to  come,"  continued  Frederick, 
and  now  there  was  a  touch  of  irony  in  his  voice. 
"Unless  your  memory  is  of  the  shortest  you  can 
not  have  forgotten  the  shortcomings  of  our  very 
limited  establishment.  It  is  ten  times  worse  since 
Mary  left  us,  and  I  try  to  give  Martha  as  little 
to  do  as  I  can,  she  is  getting  so  very  infirm. 
There  could  have  been  little  to  attract  you  at  any 
time,  Miss  Metcalfe,  but  there  is  less  than  ever 
now."  His  glance  fell  upon  her  face  with  a  cold 


316  THE  REST  HOUSE 

scrutiny,  but  it  gave  him  no  key  to  the  riddle. 
"You  have  not  run  away  from  home,  have  you?" 
he  demanded  at  last. 

"No — I  have  not  run  away.  My  father  has 
forbidden  me  to  go  back,  and  Beatrice  wouldn't 
let  me  stay  with  her  any  longer.  I — I  have  be- 
come a  Catholic,"  she  went  on  in  nervous  haste, 
"I  waited,  as  you  advised  me  to  do,  until  I  was 
twenty-one.  I  came  of  age  about  a  month  ago 
and  I  was  received  on  Tuesday." 

"You  have  become  a  Catholic?"  repeated  Mor- 
ford  in  a  stupefied  tone. 

"Yes.  And  I  have  hardly  any  money — they 
will  never  give  me  any  more — so  I  came  to  see 
your  sister  and  ask  her  advice !" 

"Why  didn't  you  consult  the  priest  who  re- 
ceived you  before  you  did  anything  so  mad?" 
asked  Frederick. 

Up  to  this  point  Peggy  had  remained  stand- 
ing, but  now  her  exhaustion  was  so  complete,  she 
felt  that  if  she  continued  to  do  so  she  would  cer- 
tainly fall  headlong  upon  the  floor.  She  sank 
into  one  of  the  stiff,  upright  chairs  and  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands.  Morford  must  not  see  her  cry. 
His  anger  would  only  be  increased  by  her  tears. 

"I  told  him  I  was  coming  to  stay  with  friends 
—with  some  people  I  knew  who  were  Catholics. 
He  told  me  I  had  better  write  first,  and  I  did 
write  the  day  before  yesterday.  I  can  not  think 
why  the  letter  never  arrived!"  Her  voice  broke 
on  a  weak  sob. 

Morford  paced  up  and  down  the  little  hall  in  a 
restless,  agitated  manner.  From  time  to  time  he 
threw  a  glance  at  the  little  figure,  so  small,  so 


THE  REST  HOUSE  317 

childish  of  aspect,  sitting  huddled  up  on  the  high 
uncomfortable  chair.  He  repressed  an  impulse 
to  pity  so  sharp  that  it  smote  him  like  a  physical 
pang.  Then  he  said: 

"Well,  there  is  nothing  for  it  that  I  can  see  but 
for  you  to  stay  here  to-night.  I  will  go  and  con- 
sult Martha  and  she  will  come  and  help  you  off 
with  all  those  wet  things — you  will  catch  your 
death  of  cold  if  you  do  not  take  them  off  soon. 
Please  do  not  sit  there  and  cry.  I  am  sorry — but 
the  whole  thing  is  so  impossible!" 

Martha  had  been  his  nurse  and  his  mother's 
before  him.  She  was  seventy  now,  an  aged, 
wrinkled  woman,  but  still  active  and  even  auto- 
cratic, still  expecting  to  use  the  authority  that 
had  been  hers  in  the  days  when  she  ruled  over  the 
nursery  at  the  Rest  House.  It  was  Frederick 
who  had  been  the  noisy  and  unruly  member  of 
that  nursery,  but  she  adored  him  still  as  she  had 
always  done. 

He  disappeared  down  the  passage,  leaving 
Peggy  alone,  and  made  his  way  to  the  kitchen. 

"Martha,"  he  said  abruptly,  "Miss  Metcalfe  is 
here;  she  has  walked  from  the  Three  Lanes— 
that  brute  Jebb  would  not  bring  her  any  further, 
I  suppose,  and  she  is  wet  through  and 
thoroughly  exhausted.  She  came  here  because 
she's  been  turned  out  of  her  own  home  for  becom- 
ing a  Catholic,  and  she  thought,  of  course,  she 
would  find  Mary  here.  What  am  I  to  do?  I 
can't  turn  her  out,  and  I'm  afraid  of  what  people 
may  say  about  her  if  she  stays!" 

Martha  was  shocked  into  silence.  That  a 
young  lady  should  have  come  so  far  alone  on  such 


318  THE  REST  HOUSE 

a  night  filled  her  with  an  anxious  apprehension 
second  only  to  that  displayed  by  Frederick.  She 
had  not  been  at  the  Rest  House  when  the  Met- 
calfes  had  found  shelter  there  last  year,  and  she 
had  not  heard  of  the  little  adventure.  There  was 
silence  in  the  kitchen  except  for  the  fierce  patter 
of  the  rain  on  the  flagged  path  outside. 

"You  might  take  her  to  the  Grange,  Mr.  Fred- 
erick," she  suggested. 

"How  could  I  take  her  to  the  Grange?  What 
explanations  could  I  possibly  give  to  them?  Lady 
Denby  is  the  most  conventional  woman  in  the 
world !  Besides,  they  have  the  house  full  for  the 
shooting." 

"Better  take  her  in  to  Coldford  then,  when 
she's  dried  her  things,"  said  Martha. 

"How  can  I  take  her  to  Coldford?  You  know 
perfectly  well  there's  only  one  horse  in  the  stable 
now,  and  he's  dead  lame.  Martha — she  must 
stay  here  and  you  must  look  after  her." 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Frederick,"  said  Martha,  in  a 
dogged,  decisive  way,  "stay  here  she  shall  and  I'll 
look  after  her.  You  leave  her  to  me.  I'll  make 
up  a  bed  for  her  in  Miss  Mary's  room — that'll 
be  the  quickest  got  ready.  And  then  I'll 
get  her  a  bit  of  supper.  There's  no  cold  meat 
left  and  you  finished  the  apple  pie  for  supper  and 
we've  no  butter,  for  to-morrow's  churning  day. 
But  she  can  have  some  boiled  eggs  and  toast  and 
a  cup  of  hot  tea." 

"Oh,  that'll  do  beautifully,  Martha,"  said  Fred- 
erick, relieved  to  find  that  there  was  any  kind  of 
food  to  place  before  Miss  Metcalfe.  "I  don't 
suppose  she'll  care  what  it  is — she's  dog-tired.  If 


THE  REST  HOUSE  319 

only  it  hadn't  been  Jebb.  That's  the  mischief  of 
it,  Martha!" 

"Jebb  can't  do  you  no  harm,  Mr.  Frederick," 
said  Martha. 

"Me?  Do  you  suppose  I  care  what  Jebb  says 
about  me?  I'm  thinking  of  her — of  Miss  Met- 
calfe — her  people  are  well  known." 

"More  shame  to  them,  then,  for  turning  of 
her  out,"  said  Martha,  giving  her  young  master 
a  very  searching  glance. 

"Ah — you'll  say  that  more  than  ever  when  you 
see  her.  Such  a  little  thing,  Martha,  such  a 
fragile,  delicate-looking  little  thing!" 

Martha  filled  a  large  jug  with  hot  water  from 
the  kettle  and  moved  slowly  toward  the  door. 
Frederick  went  ahead  of  her  into  the  hall  where 
Peggy  was  still  sitting  on  the  high  chair,  in  the 
same  huddled  position,  as  of  one  at  the  end  alike 
of  her  strength  and  courage. 

"So  that's  the  way,  is  it?"  muttered  the  old 
woman  to  herself.  "Well,  well,  his  turn  was 
bound  to  come  sooner  or  later  as  I  always  told 
Miss  Mary,  when  she  couldn't  make  up  her  mind 
to  leave  him." 

"Here  is  Martha,"  said  Frederick  and  the  tone 
of  his  voice  sounded  slightly  more  gentle  to 
Peggy;  "she  will  take  you  up  to  Mary's  room 
and  help  you  to  take  off  all  those  wet  things. 
Mind  you  make  a  good  fire,  please,  Martha,  and 
see  Miss  Metcalfe  has  something  to  eat  as  soon 
as  possible." 

Martha,  competent  and  sensible  despite  her 
years,  had  soothed  his  nerves,  and  he  was  now  full 
of  solicitude  for  Peggy's  welfare. 


320  THE  REST  HOUSE 

There  was  no  answer  from  the  huddled  figure, 
but  he  thought  to  detect  a  smothered  sob.  The 
sound  hurt  him  and  he  began  to  feel  that  in  his 
first  astonishment  and  consternation  he  had  not 
been  very  kind.  He  went  up  to  her  and  quite 
awkwardly  touched  her  hand. 

"I've  talked  it  over  with  Martha  and  it'll  be  all 
right — you  must  stay  here  to-night,  and  I  can 
think  it  over  and  decide  what  you'd  better  do 
next.  You  must  have  a  good  sleep."  He  looked 
at  her  as  she  raised  her  face,  pale  and  tear-stained 
to  his. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,"  she  said. 

She  stumbled  to  her  feet. 

"Please  let  me  go  to  the  chapel." 

"No,  certainly  not,"  said  Frederick  with  deci- 
sion, "you  must  not  stay  a  moment  longer  than's 
necessary  in  those  soaked  things.  As  it  is,  I  sup- 
pose you  will  have  an  awful  cold.  But  when  you 
are  ready,  if  you  don't  want  to  go  to  bed  directly, 
I  hope  you  will  come  down  and  have  your  supper, 
and  then  you  can  go  for  a  few  minutes  into  the 
chapel." 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  brisk  and  decisive  au- 
thority, which  appeared  to  brace  Peggy  to  effort. 
She  followed  Martha  across  the  hall  and  up  the 
stairs  to  Mary's  room. 

About  an  hour  later  Frederick  heard  a  light 
tap  at  the  study  door.  Peggy  was  standing  there 
flushed  and  smiling. 

"I  have  come  to  say  good-night,"  she  said  tim- 
idly, "I  have  had  my  supper  and  Martha  has  been 
so  kind  and — helpful.  And  now  may  I  go  to  the 
chapel,  please?" 


THE  REST  HOUSE  321 

Frederick  sprang  up  from  his  seat.  He  always 
seemed  formidable  to  Peggy  when  he  thus  tow- 
ered above  her,  looking  down  upon  her  from 
his  great  height. 

"I  will  take  you  there  myself,"  he  said  and 
lighting  a  candle  he  led  the  way  down  the  long 
passage  to  the  chapel.  Peggy  almost  mechan- 
ically opened  the  drawer  in  which  Mary  had 
found  a  veil  for  her.  It  was  still  there ;  she  threw 
it  lightly  about  her  head.  Her  face  looked 
charming  in  that  soft  black  frame. 

Then  Frederick  threw  open  the  door  and  she 
slipped  into  the  shadows  of  the  dimly  lit  chapel 
beyond.  She  knelt  down,  and  it  was  quite  a  long 
time  before  she  perceived  that  Frederick  had  not 
gone  away;  he  was  kneeling  at  a  little  distance 
from  her,  his  head  bowed  low  upon  his  hands. 

Presently  he  got  up  and  went  across  to  Peggy 
and  as  she  did  not  stir  he  touched  her  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "you  are  not  to  stay  here  all 
night,  you  know.  I  am  not  going  to  allow  it. 
It  is  time  for  you  to  go  to  bed." 

Peggy  rose  and  obediently  followed  him.  Al- 
though his  manner  had  grown  much  more  gentle, 
he  was  still  speaking  to  her  as  if  she  were  a  little 
child.  He  commanded  and  very  meekly  she 
obeyed. 

He  paused  when  they  were  standing  outside 
in  the  passage,  and  watched  her  as  she  took  off 
the  veil,  folded  it,  and  put  it  back  into  the  drawer. 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"You  can  not  imagine  how  much  I  have  wished 
to  come  back  here  and  say  thank  you.  Because  it 


322  THE  REST  HOUSE 

was  there,"  she  bent  her  head  slightly  toward  the 
chapel,  "that  I  first  knew  I  must  be  a  Catholic. 
You  must  not  think  because  I  was  weak  and  cried 
to-night  that — that  I  regretted  anything.  I  was 
only  cold  and  tired  and  I  could  not  help  seeing," 
she  dropped  her  voice,  "that  you  wished  I  had  not 
come.  But  I  will  go  away  to-morrow — I  can 
always  go  back  to  the  convent  in  London,  and  I 
am  sure  I  shall  very  soon  find  something  to  do." 

Again  she  saw  that  strange  expression  which 
she  could  not  understand  in  his  eyes.  But  she 
was  almost  sure  that  he  felt  a  little  sorry  former 
because  she  was  homeless  and  rather  weak  and 
stupid,  and  unable  to  take  care  of  herself. 

But  he  only  led  the  way  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
and  then  held  out  a  candle  to  her. 

"I  hope  you  will  have  a  good  night,  Miss  Met- 
calfe,"  he  said.  "You  must  ask  Martha  for  any- 
thing you  want." 

He  watched  her  as  she  went  up  the  narrow, 
steep  flight  of  stairs.  "Poor  little  girl — poor 
little  girl,"  he  said  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

REDBRICK  sat  up  very  late  that  night  meditat- 
ing  upon  the  events  of  the  day  which  had 
begun  for  him  with  all  the  colorless  monotony  of 
his  life  at  the  Rest  House.  The  rising  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour — there  was  no  Mass  as  Father 
Denis  was  awray,  but  he  spent  the  half  hour  in 
the  chapel  just  the  same,  making  his  morning 
offering  and  meditation.  Then  the  daily  routine 
of  work  from  which  he  had  returned  about  six 
o'clock;  his  lonely  evening  meal  presided  over 
by  old  Martha — and  then  the  coming  of  Peggy. 
As  he  first  let  his  mind  dwell  upon  that  unbe- 
lievable vision  of  her  he  remembered  that  she  had 
seemed  to  him  like  some  elfin  spirit  that  had 
strayed  to  his  house  for  shelter  from  the  lonely 
Somersetshire  woods  and  hills. 

But  that  Peggy  should  be  here,  under  his  roof, 
the  Peggy  whose  image  he  had  thrust  so  reso- 
lutely from  his  mind  that  for  months  past  it  had 
scarcely  ever  arisen  to  trouble  the  peace  thereof, 
filled  him  with  perplexity  and  bewilderment;  he 
could  not  realize  it ;  it  was  indeed  one  of  those  im- 
possible events  that  even  actual  fact  can  scarcely 
invest  with  credibility.  Moved  by  some  impulse 
he  hardly  yet  understood,  she  had  strayed  back 
to  seek  out  his  sister,  to  make  her  thanksgiving  in 
the  little  chapel  where  the  light  of  faith  had  first 
been  vouchsafed  to  her. 

With  harsh  words  he  had  tried  to  shield  his 
323 


324  THE  REST  HOUSE 

own  heart,  to  armor  it  against  her  who  had  found 
access  to  it  so  easily.  And  through  that  very 
heart  of  his  there  ran  now  a  little  thrill  of  passion- 
ate triumph  that  she  who  had  seemed  so  utterly 
beyond  and  above  his  reach,  a  remote,  inaccess- 
ible, yet  tantalizingly  beautiful  creature,  should 
be  here  of  her  own  will,  lodged  under  the  roof  he 
had  judged  so  wholly  inadequate  to  receive  her. 

She,  friendless  and  alone,  had  returned  to  the 
Rest  House  for  shelter  like  a  little  wounded  hom- 
ing bird. 

Of  course  it  was  not  likely  that  these  tragic 
present  circumstances  of  hers  should  be  perma- 
nent. Surely  her  father,  having  first  lodged  his 
severe  protest  and  harshly  exercised  his  author- 
ity, would  relent  and  send  for  her  when  he  found 
them  unavailing  to  deter  her  from  her  fixed  de- 
termination of  purpose.  No  man  who  had  an 
ounce  of  pity  or  affection  for  his  child  could  pos- 
sibly contemplate  the  permanent  infliction  of 
so  severe  and  sharp  a  penance  upon  a  young 
and  weak  girl.  Surely,  too,  her  mother  would 
plead  for  her,  and  soften  the  father's  obduracy, 
and  persuade  him  to  receive  her  again.  It  was 
impossible  for  him  to  believe  that  they  could  be 
utterly  destitute  of  affection  and  solicitude  for 
any  one  so  lovely  and  so  delicate-looking.  For 
like  many  Catholics  born  and  bred  in  the  Faith, 
Frederick  Morford  was  inclined  to  undervalue 
the  fierce  passion  of  Protestant  prejudice.  He 
could  not  believe  that  the  sentence  would  be  per- 
mitted to  continue  unrevoked.  Some  day  she 
would  surely  be  forgiven  and  allowed  to  return 
to  that  home  of  hers ;  she  would  go  back  to  a  mar- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  325 

riage  that  would  be  in  all  respects  worthy  of  her, 
with  a  man  whose  fortune  matched  her  own. 
She  had  not  really  come  any  nearer  to  him.  She 
was  still  as  far  removed  from  him  as  ever.  Even 
to-night  he  ought  to  try  to  prevent  his  thoughts 
from  dwelling  upon  her  so  persistently. 

Before  going  to  bed  herself,  old  Martha  came 
down  to  the  study  to  inform  him  that  Miss  Met- 
calfe  was  in  bed  and  sound  asleep.  She  had  had 
a  cup  of  hot  milk  the  last  thing;  it  often  helped 
people  to  go  to  sleep.  "And  I'll  take  her  a  cup 
of  tea  when  she  first  wakes,"  added  Martha,  "I'm 
sure  she  must  be  used  to  it." 

"Thank  you,  Martha,"  said  Frederick. 

What  a  comfort  that  she  had  been  able  to  go  to 
sleep  so  soon,  after  such  a  long  and  trying  day. 

"She's  a  sweet,  pretty  young  lady,  Master 
Frederick,"  said  Martha  after  a  moment's  pause. 
"Such  nice  manners — the  way  she  thanked  me 
and  begged  me  not  to  trouble,  and  seemed  so 
sorry  to  disturb  us.  Well,  well,  perhaps  she's 
been  sent  here  for  some  good  purpose — who 
knows?  I  made  her  say  a  Hail  Mary  because 
she'd  got  here  safe  and  sound.  And  she  said  it 
after  me  like  a  child." 

"Thank  you,  Martha,"  said  Frederick  again. 
"I'm  sure  youVe  done  all  you  could.  Good- 
night," he  added  hastily.  Martha  was  a  great 
talker  and  he  wanted  desperately  to  be  alone,  to 
think  things  out  as  he  would  have  expressed  it, 
to  make  plans  for  the  future,  sensible,  practical 
plans  that  should  relieve  the  confusion  of  the  sit- 
uation and  leave  him  no  space  for  idle  dreaming. 

Li#ht  came  to  him  at  last  with  the  sudden  force 


326  THE  REST  HOUSE 

of  an  illumination.  There  was  Mrs.  Dalton, 
kindest  of  friends,  most  sensible  and  motherly  of 
women.  Her  matter-of-fact  mind,  her  complete 
want  of  imagination — two  qualities  in  her  which 
had  often  irritated  him — had  never  seemed  so 
attractive  to  him  as  they  did  now.  She  would  be 
the  very  person  to  help  him,  to  suggest  something 
that  should  be  at  once  wise  and  kind  and  helpful 
to  Peggy.  Her  influence  might  even  prove  brac- 
ing. Of  course  the  girl  had  gone  through  a  great 
deal,  but  she  ought  to  learn  a  measure  of  forti- 
tude, and  he  knew  that  Mrs.  Dalton's  kindness 
was  not  of  the  weakly  indulgent  order.  She 
could  teach  Peggy,  who  was  still  in  so  many  ways 
such  a  child. 

He  forced  himself  to  think  of  Peggy  thus— 
as  a  child  weak  and  rather  forlorn  who  needed 
guidance  and  help.  Not  as  a  woman  to  be  loved 
and  knelt  before  and  worshiped.  Frederick  shut 
that  aspect  of  her  resolutely  from  his  heart;  it 
must  never  be  allowed  to  dwell  there.  He  knew 
better  than  any  one  the  limitations  of  the  Rest 
House,  its  poverty,  the  plainness  and  often  the 
insufficiency  of  its  fare,  the  absolute  lack  of  all 
creature  comforts.  He,  a  strong,  vigorous  man, 
could  endure  to  be  cold  and  hungry,  but  Peggy ! 
To  capture  her — imprison  her  here  in  all  her 
youth  and  beauty — would  be  to  impose  only  a 
cruel  fate  upon  her,  a  fate,  too,  that  in  her  present 
loneliness  and  destitution  she  might  even  accept. 
There  lay  a  subtle  temptation  in  this  thought 
which  again  and  again  presented  itself  to  hinic 
If  he  were  to  ask  her  to-morrow  to  give  him  the 
right  to  protect  and  guard  her  as  his  own  wife, 


THE  REST  HOUSE  327 

would  she  refuse?  Would  it  not  offer  to  her  a 
present  solution  of  that  problem  of  hers,  a  conso- 
lation in  her  present  distress  ?  In  the  emergency 
of  her  need,  would  she  not  perhaps  promise  to  be 
his  wife  and  share  with  him  the  poverty  of  his 
life? 

He  put  aside  these  dreams.  To-morrow  he 
would  take  her  to  Bargrove,  and  entreat  Mrs. 
Dalton  to  give  her  hospitality  for  a  few  days. 
She  would  be  the  very  person  to  help  him  in  his 
dilemma;  he  felt  sure  that  she  would  welcome 
Peggy,  the  history  of  whose  previous  visit  to  the 
Rest  House  had  already  been  communicated  to 
her. 

Of  course  it  was  most  unfortunate  that  Miss 
Metcalfe  should  have  come  to  the  Rest  House  in 
this  unconventional  way.  Evil  tongues  might 
well  place  a  bad  interpretation  upon  her  innocent 
action.  There  was  that  man  Jebb,  for  instance, 
an  advanced  socialist  with  a  fierce  antagonism 
toward  Catholics,  a  follower  of  the  Stone  Cross 
cobbler,  in  whose  cry  of  "No  Popery!"  he  was 
ever  ready  to  join.  Jebb  had  brought  her  as  far 
as  the  Three  Lanes  and  had  left  her  to  continue 
the  rest  of  her  journey  on  foot,  a  fact  which  might 
be  regarded  as  a  tacit  assertion  of  his  own  disap- 
proval. It  was  hardly  to  be  hoped  that  he  would 
be  silent  in  his  criticism  of  the  unconventional 
situation.  Frederick  had  a  man's  large  contempt 
for  what  people  might  say  about  himself,  but  he 
felt  a  passionate  desire  to  shield  Peggy  from  the 
arrows  of  poisonous  tongues.  To  shield  her  for- 
ever behind  the  armor  of  his  own  name  was  a 
thing  he  dared  not  contemplate,  and  he  thrust 


328  THE  REST  HOUSE 

the  thought  from  him  as  he  might  have  tried  to 
avert  the  point  of  some  sharp  instrument  that 
was  capable  of  inflicting  an  exquisite  torture.  It 
was  impossible ;  she  must  never  feel  even  the  need 
for  rehabilitating  herself  in  this  way;  she  must 
never  know  that  her  innocent  action  was  capable 
of  being  vilely  interpreted.  She  had  only  seemed 
to-night  to  think  of  the  inconvenience  she  had 
caused.  He  knew  that  he  could  trust  Mrs.  Dai- 
ton  not  to  enlighten  her. 

His  plans  were  fully  matured  in  all  their  nec- 
cessary  detail  before  he  allowed  himself  to  go 
to  bed.  He  knew  that  he  would  not  be  able  to 
sleep  with  that  high  wind  screaming  round  the 
house  and  the  rain  beating  and  splashing  its  large 
tears  against  the  panes.  There  were  many 
thoughts  in  Frederick's  heart  that  night,  some  of 
them  too  intimate  and  sacred  to  be  revealed.  It 
was  here  that  Peggy's  spiritual  capture  had  taken 
place;  here  that  she  had  known  first  that  divine 
imprisoning;  here  that  she  had  heard  the  words 
summoning  her.  And  with  all  her  weakness  she 
had  answered  quickly,  obediently,  generously, 
with  scarcely  a  thought  for  those  readily  aban- 
doned nets.  And  he  knew  that  if  he  could  ever 
win  that  priceless  gift,  the  love  of  Peggy's  heart, 
she  would  care  for  poverty  and  privation  as  little 
as  he  did. 

He  rose  early  on  the  following  day — it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  scarcely  slept  for  five  minutes 
when  Martha's  heavy  knock  sounded  at  the  door. 
His  visit  to  the  chapel  accomplished,  he  went  off 
to  borrow  a  horse  for  the  drive  to  Coldford.  He 
would  not  go  to  Hintlecombe  to  give  another 


THE  REST  HOUSE  329 

fillip  to  gossiping  tongues,  and  besides,  there  was 
a  train  which  ran  from  Coldford  to  the  Daltons' 
nearest  station  without  change.  It  would  be  time 
enough  when  they  reached  that  town  to  send  Mrs. 
Dalton  a  telegram  to  announce  their  coming. 
She  took  everything  as  a  matter  of  course  and 
would,  he  knew,  feel  scarcely  any  surprise. 

Peggy  was  still  too  tired  to  do  anything  but 
fall  in  quite  readily  with  all  Frederick's  arrange- 
ments. She  made  one  little  protest  about  going 
to  Mrs.  Dalton's,  saying  it  might  be  inconvenient 
for  them  to  receive  her  and  pleading  that  she 
could  quite  well  return  to  the  convent.  Fred- 
erick dismissed  these  arguments  with  a  quick 
frown. 

"I  really  think  you'd  be  better  there  just  for  a 
bit.  You  see  you've  got  to  get  used  to  things." 

If  she  had  been  capable  of  feeling  pain  at  all 
amid  the  confusion  of  so  much  change  and  up- 
heaval, she  would  perhaps  have  shrunk  a  little 
from  going  to  Bargrove.  But  Beatrice  had 
spoken  with  so  much  certainty  about  Frederick's 
engagement  to  Bridget  Dalton  that  she  had  to  a 
certain  extent  accustomed  her  mind  to  the 
thought.  What  more  natural  thing  than  that  he 
should  under  the  circumstances  shift  the  burden 
of  herself  upon  these  people  who  already  had 
such  a  strong  claim  upon  him?  As  a  future  son 
of  the  house  he  could  appeal  to  them  for  assist- 
ance with  confidence  and  assurance  in  their  readi- 
ness to  grant  it. 

Peggy  had  never  deeply  analyzed  her  own  feel- 
ing for  Frederick ;  she  had  never  discovered  that 
the  strong  influence  he  exercised  over  her  owed 


330  THE  REST  HOUSE 

its  origin  to  her  own  heart.  She  had  never  recog- 
nized that  the  fear  and  excitement  and  strange 
trembling  she  had  felt  at  his  approach  were  the 
first  tremulous  feelings  of  love  in  a  heart  that  was 
wholly  untried.  She  had  hoped  if  she  ever  mar- 
ried that  her  husband  would  think  as  he  did,  and 
that  he  might  perhaps  even  be  a  little  like  Fred- 
erick. She  had  even  thought  once  for  a  short 
time  before  she  knew  of  his  engagement  that  she 
could  never  marry  Hugh  Quentin  or  any  other 
man  while  Frederick  Morford  was  in  the  world. 
There  was  no  pain  in  the  thought  that  he  be- 
longed to  another  girl,  yet  she  felt  if  she  dwelt 
upon  it  too  long  or  envisaged  it  too  clearly  that  it 
might  be  productive  of  a  pain  whose  sharpness 
and  extent  it  would  be  impossible  to  measure. 

But  he  had  disclosed  his  plan  of  taking  her  to 
Bargrove  as  a  premeditated  arrangement  which 
did  not  even  require  her  consent;  he  had  waved 
aside  those  timidly  proffered  objections  of  hers; 
he  had  given  her  to  understand  quite  clearly  that 
Mrs.  Dalton  of  all  people  in  the  world  was  the 
one  best  fitted  to  cope  with  the  exigencies  of  her 
own  present  difficult  situation.  His  own  relief, 
too,  at  this  shifting  of  his  burden  to  the  shoulders 
of  another  was  so  obviously  intense  that  Peggy, 
feeling  she  had  tried  him  enough  by  coming  at  all, 
meekly  fell  in  with  his  wishes.  She  had,  too,  the 
comfortable  conviction  that  he  knew  best,  even  if 
what  he  had  determined  to  do  did  hurt  her  a  little. 
And  even  if  she  had  been  sensible  of  the  hurt  that 
was  surely  to  follow  instead  of  vaguely  fearing  it, 
there  would  still  have  been  a  deep  and  strange  joy 


THE  REST  HOUSE  331 

in  the  thought  that  they  were  to  make  this  short 
journey  together. 

It  seemed  so  wonderful  to  be  traveling  alone 
with  Frederick  Morford!  The  November  day 
was  beautifully  fine,  as  if  the  weather  were  re- 
penting of  its  insubordinate  mood  of  yesterday. 
The  sunlight  lay  in  pale  bars  of  golden  light  upon 
the  green  slopes  of  the  Mendip  hills,  and  illu- 
minated the  soft  brown  bloom  that  still  colored  the 
leafless  woods.  There  was  a  soft,  almost  warm 
breeze  such  as  often  blows  in  Somersetshire  and 
to  which  is  perhaps  attributable  its  character  of 
having  a  "muggy  climate."  The  horse  Frederick 
had  borrowed  was  a  strong  one  and  they  drove 
along  at  a  swift,  steady  pace. 

On  the  way  to  the  station  she  said  timidly : 

"Is  it  long  since  you  have  been  to  Bargrove?" 
She  looked  up  at  him  under  those  thick,  dark 
lashes  that  lent  such  fire  and  depth  to  her  eyes. 

"Some  months,"  said  Morford.  "Mary  and  I 
went  there  after  my  father's  death,  a  few  weeks 
before  she  went  to  the  convent.  It  was  a  farewell 
visit.  You  see,  the  Daltons  are  really  the  only  in- 
timate friends  we  have,"  he  added  as  if  to  explain 
this  visit,  which  was  an  unusual  occurrence  at 
least  in  his  sister's  life. 

Evidently,  then,  the  engaged  pair  had  not  met 
since  then — they  would  have  much  to  talk  over 
with  and  tell  each  other.  Their  separation  must 
have  lasted  more  than  three  months.  But  Mor- 
ford was  too  poor  and  too  hard-worked  to  leave 
home  very  often  even  to  visit  his  fiance.  She 
wondered  if  the  marriage  would  take  place  soon. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  Frederick  had  been  a  little 


332  THE  REST  HOUSE 

surprised  at  her  question  just  now,  as  if  the  mat- 
ter had  been  no  affair  of  hers.  She  colored  as  if 
she  had  said  something  very  indiscreet. 

"Oh,  I'm  afraid  of  going  there!"  she  cried  sud- 
denly, as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  little  gray  town 
of  Coldford  lying  at  the  foot  of  a  hill.  "I  am  a 
stranger  to  them — they  can  not  even  know  my 
name.  And  perhaps  they  will  not  like  my  com- 
ing." She  looked  piteously  at  Frederick,  and  he 
wondered  a  little  why  she  should  dislike  the  idea 

if 

of  going  there  so  much. 

"Mrs.  Dalton  is  an  extremely  kind  woman," 
he  said  shortly,  "and  I  know  she  will  do  anything 
I  ask  her.  Besides,  you  need  not  stay  there 
longer  than  you  like.  It  would  be  better  to  con- 
sult her,  though,  before  you  take  any  steps  about 
going  away." 

Morf  ord  took  the  horse  and  trap  to  an  inn  near 
the  station,  giving  orders  that  they  were  to  be 
kept  there  until  his  return  on  the  following  morn- 
ing. Peggy  was  standing  near  when  he  gave  the 
order,  and  she  was  dismayed  to  find  that  he  only 
intended  to  spend  one  night  at  Bargrove.  It 
showed  her  quite  plainly  that  his  chief  reason  for 
making  the  journey  thither  was  in  order  to  see 
her  safely  installed  under  Mrs.  Dalton's  roof,  and 
if  he  had  any  personal  pleasure  in  the  prospect  of 
the  visit  he  concealed  it  with  the  most  perfect 
success. 

He  had  with  him  only  a  bag,  and  Peggy  had 
her  little  trunk,  which  had  arrived  early  at  the 
Rest  House,  brought  by  the  carrier's  cart. 

Frederick  bought  the  tickets,  gave  the  luggage 
in  charge  of  a  porter  to  be  labeled,  and  then  said : 


THE  REST  HOUSE  333 

"Do  you  mind  waiting  here,  Miss  Metcalfe, 
while  I  go  and  send  a  telegram  to  Mrs.  Dalton?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Peggy.  She  sat  down  on  a  seat 
and  watched  the  little  groups  of  passengers 
assembled  on  the  platform.  Suddenly  she  caught 
sight  of  a  familiar  face  turned  sharply  and  scru- 
tinizingly  toward  her.  It  was  Mrs.  Gillespie. 
She  was  alone,  and  was  dressed  in  a  coat  and  skirt 
of  rough,  grass-green  frieze  that  seemed  to  in- 
crease the  odd  greenness  of  her  eyes. 

"Why,  my  dear  Peggy!"  she  exclaimed,  "what 
in  the  world  are  you  doing  here  all  by  your  little 
alone?" 

Peggy  stood  up,  and  her  confusion  painted  her 
cheeks  a  flaming  scarlet. 

"I  am  not  alone,"  she  said,  and  then  stopped. 
How  could  she  possibly  explain  the  situation  to 
Mrs.  Gillespie?  Probably  she  knew  nothing  of 
her  exile  from  Mildon.  She  stood  there  looking 
the  picture  of  guilty  embarrassment.  Oh,  what 
would  Mrs.  Gillespie  say  when  she  saw  Morf ord  ? 
His  return  from  the  telegraph-office  could  not 
long  be  delayed. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Peggy?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Gillespie  smiling,  "who  on  earth  have  you 
got  with  you  that  you  should  look  so  shy  about  it  ? 
Not— Hugh?"  And  she  looked  full  into  the 
girl's  eyes  with  a  merciless,  humorous  stare. 

"Oh,  no;  it  isn't  Hugh,"  said  Peggy  des- 
perately. She  wished  the  ground  would  open  to 
receive  her. 

"I  thought  you  never  went  about  alone — with- 
out Peter  or  your  mother  or  one  of  your  sisters," 
said  Mrs.  Gillespie,  who  had  heard  that  the  Met- 


334  THE  REST  HOUSE 

calfes  were  very  strict  with  Peggy  and  had  even 
wondered  why  they  should  imagine  it  to  be  so 
necessary.  She  had  never  seen  a  girl  who  looked 
less  likely  to  get  into  mischief  of  any  kind. 

"Oh,  haven't  you  heard?"  said  Peggy,  thankful 
to  change  the  conversation  from  the  subject  of 
her  traveling  companion,  "I'm  not  allowed  to 
live  at  home  any  more.  I — I  have  become  a 
Catholic." 

"Become  a  Catholic?"  repeated  Mrs.  Gillespie 
in  a  tone  of  scornful  surprise;  "what  made  you 
do  such  a  silly  thing  as  that?  And  do  you  mean 
that  they  have  turned  you  out  of  the  house  ?  Why 
didn't  vou  come  to  me?  I  should  have  been  de- 

v 

lighted  to  have  you,  and  I  would  have  got  Hugh 
down  and  fixed  it  all  up  between  you  in  no  time, 
so  that  vou  would  never  have  had  to  wander  about 

•/ 

the  country  like  this!  Why  didn't  you  let  me 
know,  Peggy?  You're  much  too  young  to  be 
going  about  by  yourself  in  this  way." 

"I  haven't  told  any  one  yet  except  the  nuns  at 
the  convent  where  I  stayed  in  London,  and — Mr. 
Morford."  She  uttered  his  name  with  a  certain 
timid  hesitation  that  did  not  escape  the  attention 
of  Mrs.  Gillespie. 

"Mr.  Morford?    And  who  is  he?"  she  asked. 

"He  is  a  friend  of  mine — a  Catholic,"  said 
Peggy  in  a  low  voice. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Gillespie  in  a  meaning 
tone;  "it  generally  means  that,  doesn't  it? — when 
a  girl  suddenly  becomes  a  Catholic.  So  that's 
why  you  packed  Hugh  off  to  East  Africa?" 

Peggy  did  not  reply.    Her  eyes  full  of  terror 


THE  REST  HOUSE  335 

were  fixed  upon  Morford,  who  was  rapidly  ad- 
vancing down  the  platform  toward  them.  He 
felt  a  little  surprise  when  he  saw  Peggy  talking 
to  an  unusual-looking  woman  dressed  in  vivid 
green. 

"Mr.  Morford — Mrs.  Gillespie,"  said  Peggy, 
crimsoning  anew  and  stammering  over  the  two 
names. 

"Which  way  are  you  going?"  Peggy  heard  her 
say  to  Morford. 

"To  Freshly — it's  in  Gloucestershire,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"I  suppose  you  are  going  to  stay  with  the 
Charsleys  at  Lavender  then?"  said  Mrs.  Gilles- 
pie, whose  curiosity  was  thoroughly  aroused. 

What  a  little  puss  Peggy  was  in  spite  of  her 
innocent  childlike  airs! 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Peggy  looking  up  quickly, 
"Beatrice  isn't  at  Lavender  now — she's  spending 
the  autumn  in  town.  But  in  any  case  she 
wouldn't  let  me  stay  with  her  now." 

"We  are  going  to  Mrs.  Dalton's  at  Bargrove," 
said  Frederick  rather  haughtily.  He  disliked 
Mrs.  Gillespie's  manner  to  Peggy,  and  he  felt 
a  little  afraid  of  what  she  might  say  next. 

The  train  steamed  into  the  station  at  that  mo- 
ment, putting  an  end  to  the  conversation.  Fred- 
erick moved  toward  the  opening  doors  to  find 
seats  for  himself  and  Peggy.  Mrs.  Gillespie 
took  the  opportunity  of  whispering: 

"Well,  my  dear  Peggy,  when  am  I  to  con- 
gratulate you?  I  don't  think  much  of  your 
taste  though — Hugh's  far  better  looking  and  you 
could  have  had  a  lovely  time  if  you'd  married 


336  THE  REST  HOUSE 

him.  He  was  so  much  in  love  with  you  he'd  have 
given  you  everything — everything!  Who  is  this 
Mr.  Morford?  Where  did  you  pick  him  up?" 

There  was  fortunately  no  time  for  Peggy  to 
answer  this  question,  for  Frederick  beckoned  to 
her  as  he  held  open  the  door  of  a  carriage. 

"Will  you  get  in,  Miss  Metcalfe?"  he  said  with 
a  return  of  his  old,  forbidding  manner. 

"Good-by,"  said  Peggy  hastily  to  Mrs.  Gilles- 
pie. 

"Good-by,"  replied  Mrs.  Gillespie,  "if  it's  not 
too  late,  Peggy,  do  let  me  entreat  you  to  be  care- 
ful. Sir  John  may  not  wish  to  have  you  back  at 
home  but  he  would  be  the  first  to  disapprove  of 
your  being  seen  in  the  wilds  of  Somersetshire 
alone  with  a  strange  young  man.  I  hope  you  will 
reach  your  destination  safely." 

Peggy  was  crimson  in  the  face  as  she  mounted 
up  the  steps  into  the  carriage.  She  felt  for  the 
first  time  that  she  was  doing  an  unconventional 
and  very  strange  thing.  If  Mrs.  Gillespie  had 
not  evinced  such  disapproving  surprise  she  would 
have  attached  scarcely  more  importance  to  the 
episode  of  traveling  with  Morford  than  if  Peter 
had  been  her  escort.  She  was  only  thankful  after 
her  experience  of  yesterday  that  Morford  had 
not  insisted  upon  her  making  the  journey  alone. 
It  was  what  she  had  fully  expected  she  might 
have  to  do,  and  she  was  excessively  grateful  to 
him  for  putting  himself  to  the  additional  incon- 
venience of  accompanying  her.  But  this  point 
of  view  had  been  relentlessly  swept  away  by  Mrs. 
Gillespie's  words,  and  Peggy  felt  that  what  she 
had  said  was  quite  true — had  Sir  John  been  able 


THE  REST  HOUSE  337 

to  see  her  now  his  anger  and  displeasure  would 
be  increased  a  hundredfold.  She  was  perfectly 
aware  of  the  opinion  he  held  about  Morford,  and 
if  he  could  see  them  now  perhaps  he  would  feel 
his  opinion  was  justified.  Had  he  not  called  him 
a  fortune-hunter  who  had  taken  advantage  of 
her  youth  and  inexperience  to  make  the  attempt 
to  proselytize  her?  Had  not  Mrs.  Gillespie  im- 
mediately attributed  her  conversion  to  Morford's 
influence?  Peggy,  shamed  and  humbled,  shrank 
into  the  corner,  trying  to  avert  her  face  from 
Morford's  stern  eyes. 

"Your  friend  seemed  surprised  to  see  you 
here,"  he  said  at  last,  trying  to  speak  lightly,  for 
something  in  Mrs.  Gillespie's  manner  had  jarred 
upon  him. 

"I  think  she  was,"  admitted  Peggy. 

He  wondered  if  Peggy  in  her  innocence  had 
informed  her  of  yesterday's  adventure — of  her 
unexpected  visit  to  the  Rest  House. 

"She  seemed  so  curious  to  know  where  we  were 
going,"  he  continued. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Peggy.  Then  she  added,  "She 
lives  at  Mildon,  you  see;  they  are  our  neighbors." 

"She  will  be  able  to  give  news  of  you  to  your 
people,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  bitterness  in  his 
voice. 

"Yes,"  said  Peggy.  "I  am  afraid — as  she  said 
—that  they  would  not  approve  of  my  traveling 
about  like  this." 

"Then  they  should  not  have  turned  you  away 
penniless!"  flashed  out  Morford  with  a  violence 
that  astonished  and  alarmed  her.  "It  is  their  own 
fault !  Oh,  when  I  think  of  them  I  have  no  words 


338  THE  REST  HOUSE 

to  express  what  I  think  of  their  conduct  toward 
you!" 

Peggy  had  never  suspected  that  Morford 
would  adopt  this  point  of  view.  She  even  wished 
to  defend  those  absent  ones  who  were  still  dear 
to  her  and  were  perhaps  justified  in  the  exercise 
of  their  Olympian  authority.  She  had  rebelled 
and  disobeyed,  and  she  no  more  questioned  their 
right  to  punish  her  in  this  way  than  as  a  child 
she  has  questioned  their  right  to  administer  sharp 
physical  chastisement  to  her.  In  their  eyes  her 
fault  had  been  unpardonable. 

"You  must  not  blame  them,"  she  said  quickly, 
"I  am  their  child — they  have  a  right  to  punish 
me  if  they  think  I  deserve  it." 

Frederick  looked  at  her  in  speechless  astonish- 
ment. It  was  evident  that  she  did  not  blame  them 
at  all  for  their  unparalleled  harshness;  she  even 
defended  them  from  hostile  criticism. 

"They  warned  me  that  it  was  what  would  hap- 
pen," she  explained.  "Just  as  they  used  to  warn 
me  that  I  should  be  punished  when  I  was  a  little 
child  if  I  did  certain  things.  If  I  disobeyed  them 
I  had  only  myself  to  thank,  but  it  didn't — "  and 
now  her  face  broke  into  an  enchanting  smile — "it 
didn't  make  the  pain  any  easier  to  bear!" 

She  remembered  afterward  that  throughout 
the  journey  Frederick  Morford  did  strenuously 
exert  himself  to  look  after  her  comfort,  as  if 
perhaps  he  wished  to  make  amends  for  the  harsh- 
ness of  his  reception  of  her  on  the  previous  day. 
He  sedulously  saw  that  she  had  all  that  she  re- 
quired in  the  way  of  open  or  shut  windows,  rugs, 
hot-water  tins  for  her  feet,  newspapers  to  read. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  339 

He  could  ill  afford  the  money  he  had  spent  on 
the  latter,  as  well  as  on  the  first-class  railway 
tickets  which  Peggy  had  unthinkingly  permitted 
him  to  buy.  Bat  at  least  it  should  never  be  said  of 
him  that  he  had  neglected  to  take  care  of  this 
creature  of  china-like  fragility  beside  whom  he 
felt  so  aware  of  his  own  great  clumsiness  and 
awkwardness. 

The  two  hours'  journey  passed  all  too  quickly 
for  Peggy,  who  was  now  definitely  dreading  the 
thought  of  seeing  Frederick  and  Bridget  Dalton 
together.  Her  pride,  too,  suffered  a  little  at  the 
prospect  of  being  thrust  in  all  her  new  homeless- 
ness  and  friendlessness  upon  the  charity  of  these 
strangers. 

It  seemed  to  be  her  very  first  taste  of  the  bitter 
bread  of  dependence,  which  in  the  future  must 
certainly  form  her  principal  sustenance. 

Mrs.  Dalton  greeted  them  with  warm  and 
frank  kindliness.  If  she  felt  any  surprise  at  their 
advent  she  managed  to  conceal  it  admirably,  and 
she  did  not  betray  much  curiosity  about  the  ex- 
planation which  in  his  telegram  Frederick  had 
promised  to  offer.  But  he  took  so  little  notice  of 
women  as  a  rule  that  Mrs.  Dalton  did  give 
Peggy  one  quick,  searching  glance  to  ascertain, 
if  possible,  what  there  could  be  in  this  girl  to 
awaken  his  interest.  She  saw  a  pale,  dark-haired 
slip  of  a  girl  who  at  first  sight  was  scarcely 
pretty  at  all,  and  moreover,  seemed  to  be  afflicted 
with  the  most  agonizing  timidity  or  shyness- 
Mrs.  Dalton  could  not  quite  make  up  her  mind 
which.  The  question  that  did  frankly  puzzle  her, 
even  when  the  explanation  had  been  offered,  was 


340  THE  REST  HOUSE 

why  Peggy  should  have  sought  out  Frederick 
Morford  when  she  was  first  flung  a  homeless  con- 
vert upon  the  world?  It  was  a  courageous  thing 
for  any  one  to  do !  She  was  not  certain  that  she 
would  have  embarked  upon  that  course  herself. 
Was  it  only  the  proverbial  rushing  in  of  the  fool 
upon  sacred  or  dangerous  ground  ? 

"Of  course  she  can  stay  with  us,  Frederick," 
said  Mrs.  Dalton  when  she  was  alone  with  him 
after  tea.  Bridget,  who  had  not  been  in  when  they 
first  arrived  (a  fact  which  aroused  Peggy's  sur- 
prise and  made  her  question  herself  as  to  whether 
she  would  have  been  capable  of  a  similar  detach- 
ment in  Bridget's  position)  bore  Peggv  off  to 
her  room  as  soon  as  that  meal  was  over. 

"It'll  be  awfully  kind  of  you  to  have  her  for  a 
bit,"  he  said;  "you  see  she's  not  accustomed  to 
looking  after  herself,  and  she  might  do  something 
foolish.  In  some  ways  she  is  such  a  child!  And 
she's  not  resentful — she  hasn't  a  hard  feeling  in 
her  heart  toward  her  parents !  She — she  almost 
reproached  me  for  blaming  them." 

"I'm  sure  that's  very  nice  of  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Dalton  in  her  pleasant,  conventional  way,  "she 
certainly  looks  a  dear  little  thing,  Frederick. 
Well,  we  shall  be  delighted  to  keep  her  as  long  as 
she  likes  to  stay.  This  house  is  big  enough  to 
hold  a  dozen  homeless  converts.  Still,  I  can't 
imagine  any  parent  hard-hearted  enough  to  turn 
a  little  bit  of  a  thing  like  that  out  into  the  world 
without  a  penny.  I  suppose  they  thought  it 
would  be  the  quickest  way  of  getting  her  back 
again." 

"I  suppose  they  did,"  said  Frederick  gloomily. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  341 

"Let's  hope  she'll  have  the  strength  to  persevere. 
It  was  a  bit  of  a  risk,  wasn't  it?  You  can't  im- 
agine what  a  miserable  object  she  looked  last 
night  when  she  arrived  at  the  Rest  House.  Wet 
through  and  splashed  with  mud — and  cold — and 
crying!" 

"I  wonder  what  made  her  go  to  the  Rest 
House?"  she  said,  looking  straight  at  Frederick 
with  her  clear,  candid  eyes.  He  changed  color 
a  little,  feeling  that  the  question  was  perhaps  less 
simple  than  it  sounded  at  first. 

"Oh,  well — she  had  an  idea  Mary  might  help 
her.  She  didn't  know,  you  see,  that  my  father 
was  dead  or  that  Mary  had  gone  into  a  convent. 
And  she  said,  too,  that  she  wanted  to  come  and 
make  a  thanksgiving  in  the  chapel  where  she  first 
received  the  Faith." 

"Very  nice  of  her,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Dalton. 
"Still,  it  was  just  a  little  awkward  for  you,  wasn't 
it?  I  don't  suppose  that  idea  occurred  to  her, 
though." 

"I'm  quite  sure  it  didn't,"  said  Frederick 
warmly,  "she  was  only  distressed  because  she 
thought  her  coming  was  inconvenient.  I  tell  you 
she  has  the  outlook  of  a  child!" 

"Yes — she's  a  wee  bit  thing,  as  my  old  Scotch 
nurse  used  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Dalton.  But  as 
she  spoke  she  gave  Frederick  another  quick 
glance  of  scrutiny,  as  if  she  wished  to  penetrate 
into  the  fastnesses  of  that  young  man's  well- 
guarded  heart.  She  had  always  hoped  that  he 
might  take  a  fancy  to  Bridget,  who  was  more 
than  ready  to  fall  in  love  with  him  and  had  suf- 
fered already  from  one  or  two  severe  heart-aches 


342  THE  REST  HOUSE 

on  his  account.  Mrs.  Dalton  had  hoped,  too,  that 
Mary's  departure  to  the  convent  might  have  been 
helpful  in  turning  his  thoughts  toward  matri- 
mony. And  so  far  as  she  had  been  aware, 
Bridget  was  really  the  only  girl  whom  Fred- 
erick knew  at  all  intimately.  It  was  only  to  be 
expected  that  in  contemplating  matrimony  in  the 
abstract  his  thoughts  should  turn  to  his  friend's 
sister.  She  herself  had  done  all  that  a  wise 
mother  could  do  to  show  a  young  man  that  he 
was  welcome  in  spite  of  his  lack  of  fortune,  and 
would  be  equally  welcome  if  he  wished  to  estab- 
lish a  permanent  connection  between  them.  She 
had  once  artlessly  informed  him  of  the  amount 
that  would  pass  into  Bridget's  hands  on  the  day 
of  her  marriage  according  to  the  terms  of  her 
father's  will.  But  Frederick,  the  least  vain  of 
men,  who  believed  himself  to  be  inherently  unat- 
tractive to  all  women,  had  perceived  none  of  these 
innocent  maternal  maneuvres.  He  was  friendly 
to  Ally's  sisters  and  nothing  more. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  Mrs.  Dalton  had 
any  wish  for  him  to  marry  Bridget,  nor  that  her 
first  feeling  on  receiving  his  telegram  that  day 
had  been  one  of  vague  disappointment.  And 
Bridget  had  looked  at  the  telegram  and  said, 
"Miss  Metcalfe?  Who  can  she  be?  How  odd 
of  him  to  bring  a  girl  we've  never  seen  here!" 
Bridget  was  indeed  so  astonished  that  she  had 
forthwith  gone  off  for  a  long  walk,  and  when 
she  came  back  her  eyes  and  nose  were  a  little  red- 
dened— by  the  wind. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

LADY  METCALFE'S  complacency  received  an  in- 
dubitable shock  when  she  received  Beatrice's 
letter  telling  her  that  Peggy  had  been  received 
into  the  Catholic  Church,  and  therefore  she  and 
her  husband  had  deemed  it  better  that  she  should 
not  return  to  their  house. 

"We  feel  that  we  should  have  been  going 
against  you  and  father  by  continuing  to  receive 
her,"  wrote  Lady  Charsley. 

That  Peggy  should  have  left  Portman  Square 
for  an  unknown  destination  did  disturb  very 
powerfully  Lady  Metcalfe's  maternal  tran- 
quillity. She  had  counted  upon  Beatrice  keeping 
her  for  the  first  few  days  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst  and  Peggy  defied  them  all. 

"Charsley  packed  her  off  the  moment  she  re- 
turned," was  the  next  sentence  of  this  agitating 
letter;  "he  was  very  angry  with  her.  I  am  sure 
when  she  finds  herself  quite  penniless  and  alone 
and  with  nowhere  to  go  to,  she  will  come  flying 
back  to  Mildon,  and  beg  your  forgiveness,  and 
give  up  these  dreadful  errors." 

But  although  she  wrote  with  such  apparent 
conviction  in  the  righteousness  of  her  own  action, 
Beatrice  was  not  without  a  dreadful  misgiving 
(which  she  attributed  to  nerves)  that  Peggy 
might  meet  with  some  untoward  fate  before  the 
salutary  process  of  bringing  her  to  her  senses 
should  be  perfectly  completed.  London  was  not 

343 


344  THE  REST  HOUSE 

the  safest  place  for  a  girl  who  had  always  been 
sheltered  from  the  slightest  knowledge  of  evil. 
It  was  all  very  well  to  be  firm  and  put  down  one's 
foot  and  uphold  stern  parental  authority,  but  how 
about  Peggy  alone  in  that  vast  wilderness  of 
streets  ?  Beatrice  was  too  maternal  a  woman  her- 
self not  to  picture  Ethne  grown  up  and  situated 
in  some  such  deplorable  position,  and  it  was  this 
that  made  her  ease  her  own  conscience  by  writing 
that  letter  to  her  mother  with  the  desire  to  justify 
her  own  action. 

The  letter,  unfortunately,  had  not  at  all  the 
effect  upon  Lady  Metcalfe  which  Beatrice  had 
hoped  and  expected.  Her  mother  had  indeed 
confidently  pictured  Peggy  being  gradually 
brought  to  her  senses  and  to  a  proper  knowledge 
of  her  own  wrong-doing  under  the  safe  and  com- 
fortable roof  of  Beatrice's  domain.  She  was  not 
quite  without  hope  that  even  if  Peggy  did  not 
repent  and  recant,  Sir  John  might  eventually  be 
persuaded  to  permit  her  to  return  home.  At 
present  he  was  very  angry  and  there  was  no  use 
in  trying  to  propitiate  him.  On  the  top  of  this 
came  Peggy's  own  letter  dated  from  the  convent 
announcing  the  fact  of  her  reception.  She  was 
staying  there,  she  said,  until  she  heard  from  them 
if  she  might  return  to  Mildon.  Sir  John  would 
not  let  his  wife  reply  to  the  letter;  he  himself 
sent  the  angr)r  telegram  which  had  upset  poor 
Peggy  so  in  her  new  solitude.  Peter  was  miser- 
able and  after  one  violent  outburst  in  which  he 
took  Peggy's  part,  quite  fearlessly  blaming  his 
parents  for  their  abandonment  of  her,  he  had 
hardly  been  on  speaking  terms  with  his  father. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  345 

Meals  passed  in  gloomy  silence  and  everything 
was  terribly  upsetting.  Lady  Metcalfe  felt  she 
could  have  borne  it  all  if  she  had  only  been  able 
to  picture  Peggy  safely  in  Portman  Square.  A 
convent  to  Lady  Metcalfe  represented  a  place  of 
almost  sinister  mystery.  No  doubt  they  would 
do  their  best  to  make  a  nun  of  Peggy.  When  this 
idea  occurred  to  her  she  actually  wept. 

On  the  following  Thursday  she  went  to  town, 
but  when  she  arrived  at  the  convent,  determined 
to  stifle  her  pride  and  entreat  her  daughter  to  re- 
nounce her  religion  and  return  home  with  her, 
she  found  to  her  dismay  that  Peggy  had  already 
left  it.  Xo — she  had  given  no  address,  for  she 
had  left  most  of  her  things  there  and  intended  to 
return  in  a  few  days.  They  understood  that  she 
had  gone  to  stay  with  friends  in  the  country. 
Lady  Metcalfe  was  frankly  puzzled.  Peggy  had 
no  intimate  friends,  and  certainly  none  to  whom 
she  could  appeal  in  a  crisis  of  the  kind.  She  had 
never  paid  many  visits,  except  to  her  married  sis- 
ters, and  Lady  Metcalfe  could  not  possibly  im- 
agine whose  hospitality  she  could  have  sought  in 
this  way.  It  is  one  thing  to  turn  your  daughter 
out  of  the  house,  or  rather  to  forbid  her  to  return 
there,  in  order  to  punish  her  for  disobedience,  but 
to  be  absolutely  ignorant  of  her  present  wherea- 
bouts puts  a  very  different  complexion  upon  the 
matter  when  viewed  in  the  light  of  anxious  mater- 
nal solicitude. 

It  is  true  that  Lady  Metcalfe  had  loved  Peggy 
in  a  lesser  degree  than  her  other  children,  and  that 
she  had  been  more  ready  when  Peggy  was  little 
to  reprove  and  punish  her,  but  that  she  did  love 


346  THE  REST  HOUSE 

her  was  not  to  be  doubted,  and  at  that  moment 
of  her  leaving  the  convent,  having  unsuccessfully 
tried  to  discover  her  whereabouts,  she  felt  that 
she  would  have  given  anything  in  the  world  to 
know  that  Peggy  was  safe  and  sound  and  not 
more  unhappy  than  she  deserved  to  be  after  such 
reprehensible  behavior.  It  is  certain  that  had  she 
met  Peggy  then  in  the  street  she  would  have  flung 
her  arms  about  her  in  an  excess  of  relief  and 
affection. 

Instead  of  going  to  see  Beatrice  as  she  had 
planned,  Lady  Metcalfe  dismissed  the  taxi  in 
which  she  had  driven  to  the  convent  and  walked 
to  the  nearest  Tube-station,  where  she  took  a 
ticket  for  the  Bank.  It  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  traveled  by  this  modern  subterranean 
and  altogether  terrifying  means,  but  she  felt  it 
would  be  the  quickest  way  of  arriving  at  Sir 
John's  office.  She  even  managed  the  change  at 
Holborn  with  quite  a  little  thrill  of  excitement  at 
her  own  independence. 

Sir  John's  office  was  in  Fenchurch  Street,  and 
as  Lady  Metcalfe  did  not  wish  to  be  seen  walking 
in  the  City  alone,  she  took  another  taxi  from  the 
Bank.  In  all  the  long  years  of  her  married  life 
she  had  never  penetrated  unexpectedly  to  that 
city  sanctum,  for  Sir  John  was  old-fashioned  and 
preferred  to  keep  his  business  life  and  his  home 
life  strictly  apart.  That  had  been  his  father's 
way  and  he  had  adopted  it,  and  when  the  time 
came,  he  intended  to  recommend  it  to  Peter. 

Lady  Metcalfe  was  not  even  known  by  sight 
to  some  of  the  clerks,  whose  business  seemed  to 
consist  solely  in  protecting  the  person  of  Sir  John 


THE  REST  HOUSE  347 

from  fortuitous  molestation,  so  firm  were  they  in 
their  courteous  endeavors  to  restrain  her  from 
reaching  his  own  private  domain.  But  she 
brushed  them  all  aside  and  opened  his  door  with- 
out knocking. 

On  seeing  his  grim  face  regarding  her  with 
surprise  and  annoyance,  Lady  Metcalfe  burst 
into  a  torrent  of  tears. 

"Peggy!"  she  sobbed,  "Peggy!" 

Sir  John's  mouth  hardened  till  it  looked  like 
a  neat  slit  across  the  lower  part  of  his  face.  But 
as  he  could  not  help  seeing  that  something  had 
upset  his  wife  very  much  indeed,  he  pulled  a  chair 
forward,  held  her  arm  as  she  sat  down,  and  said, 
"Do  try  to  control  yourself,  my  dear  Jane." 

Control — there  was  nothing  to  equal  that  qual- 
ity in  all  the  world.  Its  possession  gave  you  an 
immense  advantage  over  those  persons  who 
habitually  gave  way  to  emotions,  anger,  and  pas- 
sion of  any  kind. 

But  the  words  did  not  have  the  effect  upon  his 
wife  which  he  had  hoped.  Instead  of  displaying 
any  disposition  to  control  herself,  her  sobs  be- 
came more  unrestrained  than  ever,  and  between 
the  sobs  came  broken  words  and  sentences  that 
revealed  the  unhappy  cause  of  her  agitation. 

"Peggy's  lost — we  don't  know  where  she  is— 
she's  left  the  convent.  And  I  can't  bear  it !  You 
must  find  her  and  bring  her  back  or  I  shall  die, 
John.  I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  bear  it  one  single 
moment  longer!  Of  course  you've  every  right 
to  be  angry  with  her,  but  you  can't  turn  a  young 
girl  like  that  out  into  the  world,  without  a  home 
and  without  a  penny.  I've  been  thinking  of  all 


348  THE  REST  HOUSE 

the  dreadful  stories  I've  ever  heard  of  girls  dis- 
appearing in  London  and  never  being  heard  of 
again.  If  she  were  to  die — if  anything  were  to 
happen  to  her — you  would  be  blamed,  and  you 
would  feel  like  a  murderer!" 

Sir  John  closed  the  door  which  led  into  the 
room  where  Peter  worked ;  he  did  not  wish  his  son 
to  hear  these  maternal  outpourings.  He  said 
stiffly: 

"No  man  likes  to  turn  his  daughter  out  of  the 
house.  But  Peggy  has  deliberately  disobeyed 
and  defied  us.  I  warned  her  that  it  would  hap- 
pen. I  have  only  carried  out  my  word.  And 
until  she  can  show  sorrow  and  signs  of  amend- 
ment, she  shall  not  return  to  Mildon.  I  hope  I 
made  it  clear  in  my  telegram  yesterday  that  there 
was  only  one  condition  on  which  I  was  prepared 
to  receive  her  back." 

"But  she  won't  show  sorrow — and  I'm  sure 
she'll  never  give  up  her  religion — you  know  how 
obstinate  she  is,"  wailed  Lady  Metcalfe. 

"Then  she  shall  not  return,"  said  Sir  John. 
"My  dear  Jane,  I  am  really  much  too  busy  to  dis- 
cuss this  matter  with  you  just  now.  You  must 
wait  till  I  come  home  to-night." 

"I  can't  be  put  off  like  this,  John,"  wailed 
Lady  Metcalfe,  "you  can  have  nothing  to  think 
about  that  can  possibly  be  more  important  than 
my  darling  Peggy.  I  must  know  where  she  is. 
If  she  can't  come  home  I  must  know  where  she  is ! 
She  must  have  money — a  home — a  companion  to 
look  after  her — she's  too  young  to  be  alone — it 
isn't  safe  for  Peggy — she's  always  been  such  a 
child  for  her  vears."  Her  tears  flowed  afresh. 


THE  REST  HOUSE  349 

"Oh,  what's  the  use  of  my  talking  like  this?  I 
must  find  Peggy  before  I  can  do  anything  for  her. 
You  must  advertise  for  her  and  put  her  photo- 
graph in  the  'Daily  Mirror'!" 

"I  shall  certainly  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said 
Sir  John,  "it  would  be  absurd  to  forbid  your 
daughter  to  return  home  because  she  chose  to 
disobey  and  defy  you,  and  then  advertise  for  her 
whereabouts.  Discipline  must  be  maintained— 
I  daresay  later  on  she  will  be  very  grateful  to  us 
for  taking  this  firm  stand.  Peggy  will  come 
home  fast  enough  when  she  has  found  out  what  it 
is  like  to  be  cold  and  hungry!" 

"But  I  don't  want  her  to  be  cold  and  hungry," 
sobbed  Lady  Metcalfe,  "she  isn't  strong  like 
Diana  and  Beatrice,  and  quite  little  things  upset 
her  and  make  her  ill.  She  will  get  ill  now  and 
then  it  will  turn  to  consumption  and  she  will  die." 

"Jane,  you  are  giving  way.  You  must  believe 
that  I  know  best  how  to  deal  with  Peggy.  I  beg 
that  you  will  not  do  anything  so  foolish  as  to 
interfere." 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  flung  open  and 
Peter  suddenly  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"I've  heard  what  you  have  been  saying,"  he 
said,  eyeing  his  father  with  a  cold  hostility,  "and 
I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  you  need  not  worry 
about  Peggy — I  know  where  she  has  gone  to. 
I've  had  a  letter  from  her  and  she's  gone  to 
friends  who  will  be  kind  to  her.  She  knew,  you 
see,"  and  now  his  voice  was  slightly  raised  and 
his  dark  eyes  blazed  with  passion,  "that  even  if 
you  didn't  care  what  became  of  her,  /  should  be 
wretched  and  anxious  if  I  didn't  know.  I'm  not 


350  THE  REST  HOUSE 

going  to  give  my  sister  up  just  because  she's  be- 
come a  Catholic.  I  know  Peggy  is  in  earnest 
about  it,  and  it's  made  her  miserable  to  go  against 
you  and  be  the  cause  of  this  awful  family  row." 
He  spoke  hurriedly  and  passionately,  as  if  the 
very  act  of  speaking  increased  his  anger.  He  had 
lost  all  control  of  himself  and  faced  both  his  aston- 
ished parents  in  a  difiant  attitude.  "But  she  had 
to  obey  her  own  conscience.  She  isn't  like  Diana 
and  Beatrice — and  myself!"  He  uttered  this 
word  with  a  fierce  scorn.  "We  have  all  in  turn 
yielded  and  done  things  we  didn't  want  to  be- 
cause we  couldn't  bring  ourselves  to  sacrifice  the 
flesh-pots.  Peggy  is  the  only  one  of  us  who  is 
worth  her  salt  and  can  do  what  she  knows  to  be 
right  regardless  of  the  consequences!" 

"Hush,  Peter,  hush,"  sobbed  Lady  Metcalfe, 
"you  mustn't  talk  like  this.  It's  very  undutiful— 
we've  done  the  best  we  possibly  could  for  you  all. 
You  mustn't  say  such  wicked  things  about  your 
sisters.  Diana  and  Beatrice  are  both  perfectly 
happy — they  have  both  married  men  they  can 
love  and  respect  and  have  happy  homes  and  dar- 
ling children.  I  only  wish  Peggy  were  as  happily 
provided  for." 

"Oh,  I  don't  deny  they're  contented  now,"  said 
Peter,  recklessly,  "but  it  was  simply  a  frightful 
risk  to  marry  poor  Beatrice  to  Charsley  when  she 
was  in  love  with  Claude.  It's  turned  out  all  right 
as  it  happened,  but  supposing  Beatrice  hadn't 
found  that  the  flesh-pots  compensated  for  what 
she'd  given  up  and  had  gone  off  with  Claude 
afterward,  you  would  have  been  to  blame  for  the 
scandal !" 


THE  REST  HOUSE  351 

"Oh,  how  dare  you  speak  so  wickedly  of  your 
own  sister?  That  was  only  a  silly  boy-and-girl 
affair  between  her  and  Claude — he  had  not  a 
penny,  and  he  was  too  young  to  think  about  mar- 
riage. No  one  saw  the  unsuitability  of  it  more 
clearly  than  Beatrice — as  soon  as  it  was  put  to 
her.  And  she  is  perfectly  happy  with  Charsley. 
We  parents  do  know  what  is  best  for  our  chil- 
dren." 

"All  the  same  it  was  a  risk,"  said  Peter  grimly, 
"and  when  you  tried  to  force  Peggy  into  marry- 
ing Quentin  you  made  certain  she  would  submit 
as  tamely  as  Beatrice  did." 

"Oh,  hush,  Peter — don't,  don't,"  sobbed  Lady 
Metcalfe. 

"You  appear  to  have  taken  leave  of  your 
senses,  Peter,"  said  Sir  John  in  a  cold,  unmoved 
tone  that  had  in  it  a  note  of  actual  boredom. 
"Kindly  go  back  to  your  room  and  use  your  un- 
doubted ability  to  get  through  the  work  I  gave 
you  this  afternoon.  If  I  dismiss  you,"  he  con- 
tinued, his  hard  eyes  fixed  upon  his  son,  "you 
will  be  able  to  join  your  sister  and  starve  in  her 
company — it  is  what  you  both  deserve.  And  if 
you  speak  in  this  way  again  you  will  most  as- 
suredly be  dismissed,  just  as  I  should  sack  any  of 
my  clerks  for  insolence  and  insubordination." 

Peter,  white  as  a  sheet  now  that  his  anger  had 
subsided,  went  back  to  his  own  room  and  slammed 
the  door. 

"I  hope  you  are  satisfied  now,  Jane,"  said  Sir 
John,  addressing  his  wife,  "you  know  your  pre- 
cious Peggy  is  safe  and  probably  enjoying  herself 
thoroughly  now  she  is  no  longer  trammelled  by 
the  discipline  of  home.  I  am  very  busy  just  now 


352  THE  REST  HOUSE 

and  have  extremely  important  letters  to  attend 
jto.  Shall  I  ask  Wilson  to  get  a  taxi  for  you?" 

"Yes,  please,  John,"  said  Lady  Metcalfe.  She 
was  once  more  the  submissive  wife.  And  it  was 
such  an  enormous  relief  to  think  that  Peggy  was 
quite  safe,  even  if  they  did  not  know  who  those 
mysterious  friends  of  hers  might  be.  And 
although  Peter  was  treating  the  whole  affair  in  a 
very  wrong  and  subversive  spirit,  he  had  taken 
a  great  load  off  her  mind  by  saying  that  he  knew 
where  his  sister  was.  She  kissed  her  husband  and 
went  downstairs. 

"I  shall  give  Peter  some  money  and  tell  him 
to  send  it  to  Peggy,"  she  thought  to  herself  as 
she  drove  away.  Dusk  had  begun  to  fall,  and  the 
lamps  along  the  Embankment  were  showing  their 
pale  globes  of  light.  The  sky  was  clear  and  a 
little  breeze  was  blowing  across  the  river.  It  was 
one  of  those  late  autumn  evenings  when  London 
looks  perhaps  more  beautiful  than  -at  any  other 
time,  full  of  mystery,  of  suggested  but  not  de- 
fined detail,  and  with  lights  and  shadows  curi- 
ously mingling.  Those  brown  blurred  effects  are 
often  more  exquisite  even  than  the  blue  and  white 
of  its  summer  mornings.  There  was  something 
calm  and  soothing  in  this  vision  of  twilit  London, 
and  it  helped  to  restore  the  shaken  complacency 
of  Lady  Metcalfe. 

"Peter  mustn't  really  talk  like  that,"  she  re- 
flected ;  "if  any  one  were  to  hear  him  it  would  give 
them  such  a  bad  impression  of  us  all.  We  have 
always  done  our  very  best  for  our  children,  and  if 
we  have  erred  at  all  it  has  been  on  the  side  of 
doing  too  much  for  them.  They  have  always  had 


THE  REST  HOUSE  353 

everything  they  could  possibly  want — everything 
that  money  could  buy.  The  best  education  at  the 
most  expensive  schools — the  best  medical  advice 

—the  most  expensive  doctors  and  dentists  and 
oculists.  And  I  am  sure  no  other  girls  had  half 
the  frocks  that  mine  had."  A  rapid  mental  sur- 
vey of  all  these  substantial  benefits  convinced 
Lady  Metcalfe  that  nothing  had  been  left  undone 
in  their  anxious  desire  that  their  children  should 
derive  every  possible  advantage  from  the  increas- 
ing prosperity  of  Metcalfe  &  Co.  Sir  John  was 
always  liberal  in  his  allowances  for  all  these  pur- 
poses. Nothing  had  ever  been  denied  to  them 
except  for  their  good,  and  then  only  when  it  was 
absolutely  necessary! 

It  was  so  wrong — such  a  wilful  mis  judgment 

—on  the  part  of  Peter  to  declare  that  Beatrice 
had  been  forced  into  marrying  Charsley.  Such 
an  ideally  happy  union.  Parents  were  respon- 
sible for  their  daughters'  marriages;  they  knew 
best  what  was  conducive  to  true  happiness. 

Two  days  later  she  received  a  visit  from  Mrs. 
Gillespie,  who  drove  over  from  Mildon  Place 
early  one  afternoon. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Lady  Metcalfe,"  she  cried  im- 
petuously when  her  hostess  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  "y°u  must  not  think  me  dreadfully  inter- 
fering, but  I  could  not  help  hearing  that  you  were 
very  angry  with  Peggy." 

At  the  mention  of  her  daughter,  Lady  Met- 
calfe's  face  changed  a  little ;  something  of  its  rosi- 
ness  seemed  to  vanish. 

"You  haven't  come  to  tell  me  that  anything 


354  THE  REST  HOUSE 

has  happened  to  Peggy,  Mrs.   Gillespie?"   she 
said. 

She  was  anxious  and  quick  to  take  alarm ;  she 
had  such  visions  of  little  Peggy  astray  and  home- 
less, in  spite  of  all  that  Peter  had  said  to  reassure 
her. 

"Oh,  she  is  quite  well,  if  it  comes  to  that!  I 
have  seen  her,"  said  Mrs.  Gillespie.  "I  met  her 
down  at  a  place  called  Coldford  in  Somersetshire 
yesterday.  I  was  waiting  for  the  London  train 
and  she  was  going  to  Freshly  in  Gloucestershire." 

"Freshly?  Why,  that  is  Beatrice's  station 
when  she  is  at  Lavender,"  exclaimed  Lady  Met- 
calfe  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"Yes,  I  imagined  at  once  that  she  was  going  to 
Lavender.  But  it  appears  that  Lady  Charsley 
refused  to  have  her  there  and  Peggy  was  going 
to  the  Daltons  at  Bargrove.  She  was  not  alone- 
she  had  a  man  with  her,  and  I  can  tell  you  she 
was  very  much  embarrassed  at  the  sight  of  me." 

"A  man?"  repeated  Lady  Metcalfe.  "Who 
could  it  possibly  have  been?  It  was  not  Hugh 
Quentin?" 

"No,  it  was  certainly  not  Hugh,"  replied  Mrs. 
Gillespie;  "it  was  some  one  very  different  from 
Hugh.  A  black-haired,  black-browed,  forbid- 
ding looking  man — she  introduced  him  to  me— 
his  name  was  Morford." 

"Morford!"  cried  Lady  Metcalfe,  sinking  back 
in  her  chair  and  looking  almost  faint  with  emo- 
tion. "You  do  not  mean  to  tell  me  that  Peggy 
went  off  to  that  dreadful  Rest  House!" 

"I  really  know  nothing  of  her  doings.  But  it 
looked  uncommonly  like  it." 


THE  REST  HOUSE  355 

"But  Peggy  assured  us  that  he  never  tried  to 
proselytize — to  convert  her.  We  were  always 
afraid  he  had  acquired  an  influence  over  her. 
Beatrice  told  me  he  was  such  a  terrible  back- 
woodsy  young  man!"  She  could  hardly  repress 
her  tears  at  this  fresh  and  disastrous  development. 

"But  if  you  won't  receive  your  daughter  at 
home,  and  if  her  sisters  won't  receive  her,  it  stands 
to  reason  that  she  must  go  somewhere.  I  daresay 
this  man  was  doing  the  best  thing  he  could  by 
taking  her  to  Mrs.  Dalton's.  They  are  Cath- 
olics— I  know  the  name  quite  well." 

"But  she  must  have  gone  to  the  Morfords 
first,"  moaned  Lady  Metcalfe.  Oh,  there  was  no 
doubt  that  Peggy,  released  from  all  parental 
trammels,  had  sought  out  this  man  in  a  way  that 
must  certainly  have  looked  suspiciously  like  a 
throwing  of  herself  at  his  head.  And  he  had  not 
been  slow  to  shift  the  burden  of  her  to  other 
shoulders.  It  was  dreadful  to  think  that  Peggy 
should  be  living  on  charity.  It  was  an  appalling 
position  for  a  Metcalfe,  and  one  that  struck  an 
overwhelming  blow  at  the  family  pride.  There 
was  no  doubt  that  Peggy  intended  to  marry  this 
man — it  was  what  they  had  always  suspected. 
And  if  the  young  man  himself  approved  of  the 
scheme,  the  marriage  might  even  take  place  be- 
fore there  was  time  for  any  of  them  to  step  in 
and  prevent  it! 

"I  felt  it  wasn't  right  for  Peggy  to  be  traveling 
about  alone  like  that,"  said  Mrs.  Gillespie;  "she  is 
such  a  baby.  I  am  sure  that  you  and  Sir  John 
have  every  reason  to  be  angry  with  her,  but  at  the 
same  time  I  want  to  entreat  you  to  have  her  home 


356  THE  REST  HOUSE 

again.  I've  thought  it  over,  Lady  Metcalfe,  and 
I  determined  to  come  and  intercede  for  her— 
that  chance  meeting  seemed  to  give  me  the  right. 
I've  pictured  Blossom  at  Peggy's  age  and  I  know 
however  disobedient  and  rebellious  she  might  be, 
I  could  never  let  her  go  out  of  my  keeping- 
alone  like  that — just  when  a  girl  wants  her 
mother  most!" 

Her  little  deep,  hollow  voice  almost  croaked 
with  emotion. 

"Peter  said  she  was  with  friends.  He  had  a 
letter  from  her,  and  he  seemed  quite  satisfied. 
But  I  never  dreamed  that  the  friends  could  be 
theMorfords!" 

Peggy  would  certainly  set  the  seal  upon  her 
disgrace  by  marrying  this  man,  and  then  she 
would  be  lost  to  them  forever. 

"My  husband  would  never  let  me  have  her 
back,"  she  said.  "He  is  very  angry  with  her. 
Oh,  I  know  you  are  blaming  us,  Mrs.  Gillespie, 
but  Peggy  has  been  very  naughty  and  rebellious, 
going  off  and  becoming  a  Catholic  like  this, 
though  we  warned  her  what  would  happen  if  she 
did!" 

"I  simply  longed  to  carry  her  off  and  bring  her 
back  with  me  yesterday,"  said  Mrs.  Gillespie, 
"but  I  don't  suppose  for  a  moment  she  would 
have  come." 

Having  said  her  say,  she  rose  to  go. 

As  she  said  good-by  she  looked  earnestly  into 
Lady  Metcalfe's  agitated  face  and  said: 

"You're  going  the  right  way,  you  know,  to 
make  her  fly  into  an  unsuitable,  imprudent  mar- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  357 

riage.  If  you  really  know  anything  against  this 
Morford  man  you  should  go  and  fetch  her  home 
at  once!" 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  Sir  John — he  is  very 
obdurate,"  sobbed  Lady  Metcalfe.  "He  will 
never  let  her  come!" 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

PEGGY  had  not  been  at    Bargrove  many  days 
before  Mrs.   Dalton   definitely  offered  to 
give  her  a  home  with  them  as  long  as  she  chose 
to  remain. 

Frederick  had  returned  to  the  Rest  House 
early  on  the  day  after  their  arrival.  Nothing  at 
all  was  said  about  his  engagement  to  Bridget, 
and  there  was  no  outward  evidence  of  any  ex- 
traordinary or  intimate  interest  in  each  other  dis- 
played by  either  of  the  persons  concerned.  But 
Peggy  had  no  reason  to  doubt  Beatrice's  word, 
and  she  could  not  help  perceiving  the  extreme 
suitability  of  such  a  marriage.  Frederick  was 
nothing  to  her — a  man  who  had  crossed  her  path 
by  chance  and  left  upon  her  life  a  mark  as  if  some 
storm  had  passed  heedlessly  across  it,  a  mark  of 
which  he  was  himself  utterly  unaware.  It  was  more 
than  likely  that  he  should  choose  for  his  wife 
the  sister  of  his  great  friend.  Bridget  was  a  very 
charming  girl,  tall,  fair-haired,  with  blue  eyes 
and  a  skin  of  cream  and  roses — the  very  antithesis 
of  Peggy  herself.  She  was  kind  to  Peggy  in  a 
sweet,  rather  undemonstrative  fashion,  and  reso- 
lutely stifled  any  unworthy  or  jealous  thoughts 
in  her  regard.  For  the  sight  of  Morford  arriving 
at  Bargrove  with  Peggy  was  a  sharp  experience 
for  Bridget — one  that  she  felt  she  would  never 
quite  forget.  It  had  shown  her  just  where  she 
stood,  and  what  the  ultimate  loss  of  him  might 
mean.  It  would  be  always  difficult  for  her  to 

358  " 


THE  REST  HOUSE  359 

show  him  in  the  future  that  frank,  sisterly  affec- 
tion which  she  had  always  displayed  toward  him 
ever  since  he  first  came,  a  shabby,  ill-clad  school- 
boy, to  spend  his  holidays  with  Ally 

Bridget  suspected  Peggy  of  being  in  love  with 
Morford.  Else  why  should  she  have  rushed  off 
to  the  Rest  House,  to  these  people  she  knew  so 
slightly,  seeking,  as  it  were,  sanctuary  with  them 
the  moment  she  found  herself  homeless  ?  Bridget 
was  three  or  four  years  older  than  Peggy  and  she 
knew  it  had  not  been  a  very  wise  nor  a  very  con- 
ventional thing  to  do.  It  had  placed  Peggy  in  a 
false  position  from  which  only  Frederick's  great 
tact  and  delicacy  had  been  able  to  extricate  her. 
A  man  could  not  think  any  better  of  a  girl  who 
was  capable  of  acting  with  such  impulsive  and  im- 
prudent rashness. 

Whether  his  interest  in  her  was  very  profound 
Bridget  could  not  say.  He  had  deposited  her  at 
Bargrove  and  left  again  on  the  following  morn- 
ing. Bridget  wondered  if  he  would  write  to  her. 
To  be  sure,  he  had  not  been  at  all  tender  or 
friendly  in  his  manner  to  Peggy;  he  had  been 
brusque  and  rather  domineering,  and  the  girl 
seemed  timid  and  a  little  afraid  of  him,  though 
eager  to  do  everything  he  suggested  in  an  almost 
childishly  obedient  way.  There  was  one  com- 
forting thought,  however — Frederick  could  not 
possibly  marry  a  woman  without  a  penny.  And 
her  own  fortune  of  five  hundred  a  year  would  be 
quite  enough  with  what  Frederick  earned  to  en- 
able them  to  live  comfortably  if  simply  at  the 
Rest  House.  Yet  in  spite  of  these  consoling 
thoughts  Bridget  still  wondered  if  he  were  as 


360  THE  REST  HOUSE 

insensible  to  the  charm  of  Peggy  as  he  appeared 
to  be.  It  was  a  very  real  charm,  underlying  all 
that  soft,  hesitating  timidity  of  hers. 

Ifcridget  would  scarcely  have  been  human  had 
she  not  heard  with  delight  that  Peggy  had  de- 
clined the  home  so  generously  offered  by  Mrs. 
Dalton;  she  would  only  accept  her  hospitality 
until  she  had  found  that  mysterious  "something" 
which  was  to  render  her  independent  of  all  char- 
ity. She  was  very  grateful,  was  obviously 
touched  by  Mrs.  Dalton's  kindness,  but  there  was 
an  inherent  pride  in  Peggy  which  came  to  the 
fore  now  and  prevented  her  from  accepting  a 
permanent  home  at  Bargrove.  Father  Fitz- 
Gerald  or  the  Reverend  Mother  at  the  convent 
would  certainly  soon  hear  of  something  suitable 
for  her  in  the  way  of  a  post — perhaps  as  a  com- 
panion, or  a  governess  to  quite  small  children. 
Diana,  it  is  true,  had  said  that  no  one  would  en- 
gage her  as  a  governess,  but  Monica  West  had 
been  encouraging  about  the  possibilities  of  her 
rinding  a  situation  as  companion. 

Soon  after  Frederick's  departure  from  Bar- 
grove  Peggy  received  a  letter  full  of  apology 
from  Monica.  She  was  very,  very  sorry,  she 
said,  but  she  had  utterly  forgotten  to  post  the 
letter  Peggy  had  entrusted  to  her.  She  had  just 
discovered  it  in  the  pocket  of  a  coat  she  had  not 
worn  for  some  days.  She  hoped  it  had  not  caused 
Peggy  a  great  deal  of  inconvenience.  She  ended 
the  letter  by  saying,  "I  miss  you  very  much— 
there's  no  one  else  of  my  own  age  here.  I  hope 
you  will  soon  come  back." 

It  was  so  simple  an  explanation  she  wondered 


THE  REST  HOUSE  361 

she  had  never  thought  of  it  before.  Next  time 
she  saw  Frederick  Morford  she  would  tell  him 
what  had  happened.  Next  time?  She  did  not 
know  when,  if  ever,  they  should  meet  again.  She 
had  been  over  a  fortnight  with  the  Daltons  be- 
fore any  more  news  was  heard  of  him,  and  then 
he  only  wrote  a  line  to  Mrs.  Dalton,  saying  he 
was  very  busy,  and  he  hoped  that  all,  including 
Miss  Metcalfe,  were  well. 

At  last  came  the  desired  letter  from  the  Rev- 
erend Mother  saying  that  an  elderly  lady  whom 
she  knew  very  well  was  looking  for  a  young  com- 
panion to  travel  abroad  with  her,  and  she  had 
recommended  Peggy  for  the  post.  If  she  knew 
French  and  a  little  Italian,  so  much  the  better,  as 
her  friend  was  to  spend  the  winter  in  Florence 
after  two  or  three  weeks  at  Cannes.  There  would 
be  no  salary,  but  all  expenses  would  be  paid,  and 
Mrs.  Ralston  was  extremely  kind  and  would 
treat  her  as  a  daughter.  But  she  was  also  deli- 
cate and  nervous  and  Peggy  would  have  to  read 
to  her  and  amuse  her.  It  sounded  an  ideal  pros- 
pect to  Peggy,  who  ran,  overjoyed,  to  display  the 
letter  to  Mrs.  Dalton. 

The  thought  of  Peggy  going  out  as  a  de- 
pendent even  under  such  favorable  circumstances 
as  these  filled  Mrs.  Dalton  with  a  very  real  con- 
cern and  misgiving.  She  was  singularly  un- 
formed, and  Mrs.  Dalton  had  the  feeling  that  she 
would  very  easily  be  hurt.  But  there  seemed  to 
be  no  alternative.  The  girl  was  too  proud  to 
accept  her  hospitality  for  any  length  of  time,  and 
it  seemed  unlikely  that  her  father  would  relent 
and  forgive  her.  Peggy  must  therefore  earn  her 


362  THE  REST  HOUSE 

bread  as  thousands  of  homeless  converts  had  done 
before  her.  Surely  she  could  pay  the  price  as 
well  as  they! 

She  put  down  the  letter  and  looked  at  Peggy. 

"I  think  if  you  are  determined  to  leave  us  that 
you  had  better  accept  it,"  she  said.  "I  have  met 
Mrs.  Ralston,  and  she  is  a  very  charming  woman 
and  a  most  pious,  good  Catholic — it  would  be  an 
advantage  for  any  young  convert  to  be  with  her. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  she  is  very  delicate  and 
she  might  make  too  great  demands  upon  your 
physical  strength.  You  do  not  look  very  strong, 
and  when  you  are  with  her  you  will  not  be  able 
to  call  your  time  your  own." 

"I  am  prepared  for  that,"  said  Peggy.  The 
prospect  of  going  to  Italy  was  rather  exciting; 
it  made  up  for  a  good  deal. 

"Perhaps  you  would  rather  consult  Frederick 
Morford  before  you  decide,"  said  Mrs.  Dalton. 
"I  will  write  and  ask  him  to  come  here,  if  you 
like." 

"Oh,  no,  please  not,"  cried  Peggy,  distressed  at 
the  idea.  "I  mean — he  is  far  too  busy  to  make 
a  journey  just  on  my  account.  I  was 
ashamed  of  giving  him  all  that  trouble — of  taking 
up  so  much  of  his  time— when  he  brought  me  here. 
I  would  not  trouble  him  again  for  the  world!" 
A  quick  flush  colored  her  pale  face  as  she  spoke. 

"Perhaps  you  will  write  and  tell  him,  then, 
what  you  intend  to  do.  I  really  think  perhaps 
you  owe  him  this  courtesy,"  said  Mrs.  Dalton. 
"He  has  been  very  kind  to  you,  Peggy." 

"Very  well.  If  you  wish  it  I  will  write,"  said 
Peggy,  though  her  heart  shrank  from  the  task. 


THE  itEST  HOUSE  363 

She  had  several  letters  to  write.  First  to  the 
Reverend  Mother,  saying  she  would  be  delighted 
to  accept  the  post ;  then  one  to  Peter,  whom  she 
passionately  hoped  to  see  before  she  left  Eng- 
land. She  had  received  sympathetic  notes  from 
Peter,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  unalterably  on 
her  side,  although  she  was  afraid  that  in  his  heart 
of  hearts  he  considered  her  a  goose.  But  there  was 
a  change,  too,  in  their  mutual  attitude;  she  did 
not  find  it  quite  so  easy  to  confide  in  Peter  now 
as  she  used  to.  She  mentioned  Morford's  name 
as  little  as  possible,  and  the  details  of  her  forlorn 
arrival  at  the  Rest  House  were  still  unknown  to 
him. 

Frederick's  turn  came  at  last,  and  Peggy  felt 
sure  that  she  should  not  find  it  an  easy  matter 
to  write  to  him.  She  wished  to  be  cold  and  polite 
and  the  result  seemed  almost  rude  in  its  stiffness. 
And  after  all,  as  Mrs.  Dalton  had  pointed  out, 
he  had  been  very  kind.  When  the  letter  was  fin- 
ished it  ran  as  follows: 

"Dear  Mr.  Morford: 

"Mrs.  Dalton  thinks  you  would  perhaps  like  to 
know  my  plans.  I  have  been  offered  a  post  as 
companion  to  a  Mrs.  Ralston,  who  is  going 
abroad  for  the  winter,  to  Cannes  and  then  to 
Florence.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  accept  it 
if  she  thinks  me  suitable.  I  am  returning  to  the 
convent  on  Tuesday. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"MARGARET  METCALFE." 

Morford  did  not  answer  the  letter,  although 


364  THE  REST  HOUSE 

Peggy  hoped  that  he  might.  Aware  that  the 
thought  of  him  occupied  her  thoughts  with  a 
greater  frequency  and  persistence  since  her  sec- 
ond visit  to  the  Rest  House,  and  that  he  was 
capable  of  stirring  within  her  heart  a  sense  of 
emotion  and  pain  that  she  could  not  define, 
Peggy  longed  for  the  day  to  come  when  she 
should  leave  England  and  put  the  sea  between 
herself  and  this  man,  who  seemed  actually  in  some 
obscure,  fantastic  manner  to  dominate  her  life. 
In  another  country,  amid  fresh  and  unaccus- 
tomed surroundings,  she  would  perhaps  be  able 
to  thrust  the  remembrance  of  him  from  her.  She 
would  destroy  this  childish  dream.  He  had  been 
sent  into  her  life,  so  she  still  firmly  believed,  in 
order  that  he  might  help  her  to  become  a  Cath- 
olic; the  very  strength  of  him  had  in  a  sense 
supported  her.  But  now  he  had  fulfilled  the 
task  allotted  to  him.  The  bridge  across  which 
she  had  passed  to  reach  the  desired  stronghold 
had  served  its  purpose.  He  had  given  her  her 
very  first  lessons  in  the  Faith — impatiently, 
grudgingly,  it  is  true — and  she  tried  to  believe 
that  all  she  felt  for  him  now  was  the  outcome 
of  her  fervent  gratitude  for  the  instruction  thus 
offered  and  the  help  thus  given.  But  she  must 
not  think  of  him  any  more,  and  in  this  first  prac- 
tical impulse  toward  detachment  Peggy  felt  a 
sharp  pain  that  clouded  her  horizon. 

On  Monday  she  rose  early  and  went  to  Mass 
as  usual  and  after  breakfast  she  set  to  work  to 
pack  her  few  possessions.  She  was  to  start  early 
on  the  following  day,  and  she  wished  to  have  the 
afternoon  free  in  case  Mrs.  Dalton  proposed  to 


THE  REST  HOUSE  365 

take  her  anywhere.  But  the  small  activity  of 
packing,  instead  of  distracting  her,  served  to  de- 
press her.  It  was  true  she  was  only  to  return  to 
the  convent  on  the  following  day,  but  in  a  very 
few  days  more  she  would  set  forth  on  that  first 
stage  of  her  new  life,  among  strangers.  The 
prospect  alarmed  her  a  little  now  that  it  was  com- 
ing so  close. 

When  she  came  down  to  luncheon  Mrs.  Dalton 
said: 

"I  have  had  a  letter  from  Frederick  Morford— 
he  is  coming  here  for  the  night.    I'm  sorry  Ally 
will  miss  him  again." 

She  spoke  carelessly,  as  if  Frederick's  coming 
concerned  no  one  in  particular.  Peggy  had  often 
wished  that  Bridget  would  confide  in  her  about 
her  engagement  to  Morford.  But  perhaps  it 
was  only  one  of  those  understandings  that  had 
not  yet  been  ratified  by  a  formal  betrothal,  as 
sometimes  happens  when  the  marriage  can  not 
take  place  very  soon. 

Now  Peggy  and  Bridget  glanced  nervously  at 
each  other,  and  both  faces  betrayed  a  heightened 
color.  The  thought  that  involuntarily  presented 
itself  to  Bridget's  mind  was  this:  "If  he  had  only 
waited  until  next  week,  when  she  wouldn't  have 
been  here!"  There  was  a  lurking  fear  in  her 
heart  that  his  coming  did  closely  concern  Peggy, 
and  that  he  was  determined  to  see  her  again  be- 
fore she  left  England. 

Peggy,  on  her  side,  could  only  hope  that  he  was 
not  coming  to  try  to  dissuade  her  from  going 
out  as  a  companion.  She  was  utterly  innocent  of 
any  thought  that  he  might  have  yet  another  ob- 


366  THE  REST  HOUSE 

ject  and  one  that  most  intimately  concerned  her- 
self, in  coming  to  Bargrove  to-day. 

"It  is  very  unlike  Frederick  to  pay  us  two 
visits  so  close  together,"  continued  Mrs.  Dalton, 
"and  he  gives  no  reason  at  all  for  coming  to-day. 
However,  he  knows  he  js  Very  welcome  whenever 
he  likes  to  come." 

Peggy  stole  up  to  her  room  after  luncheon. 
She  felt  that  she  did  not  wish  to  be  downstairs 
when  Frederick  arrived.  It  was  rather  hard  on 
her  that  he  should  choose  to-day — her  last  day  at 
Bargrove — to  come,  especially  when  she  had  just 
made  so  many  firm  resolutions  to  forget  him  or  at 
least  to  think  of  him  less  often.  It  would  only 
make  things  a  little  more  difficult  for  her.  She 
had  so  hoped  to  go  away  without  seeing  him 
again. 

"Does  this  mean  he's  in  love  with  her?"  said 
Bridget  to  her  mother  when  Peggy  had  slipped 
away  upstairs. 

"I  can't  tell.  Frederick  is  so  strange  and  reti- 
cent," said  Mrs.  Dalton.  "It  must  be  on  her  ac- 
count that  he's  coming,  though." 

"She  wrote  to  him — she  may  have  suggested 
it,"  said  Bridget,  feeling  hurt  and  jealous. 

"I  don't  think  that  for  a  moment.  I  asked  her 
if  she  would  like  him  to  come  and  she  seemed 
quite  distressed  at  the  very  idea.  And  if  she  had 
cared  at  all  for  him  she  could  hardly  have  been 
in  such  a  hurry  to  leave  us." 

With  this  Bridget  had  to  be  satisfied  until 
Frederick  should  arrive  and  divulge  his  motive. 
Events  would  disclose  what  was  in  his  mind,  sup- 
posing there  existed  any  definite  policy  or  inten- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  367 

tion  therein.  Bridget  was  not  without  courage 
and  she  braced  herself  for  the  blow  that  her  heart 
feared  might  be  about  to  descend  upon  her.  Oh, 
why  had  this  foolish,  helpless  elfin  creature 
slipped  so  unnecessarily  into  Frederick's  life  ? 

When  Peggy  went  downstairs  to  the  drawing- 
room  Frederick  was  already  there  and  they  were 
having  tea.  She  sat  down  near  the  fire,  her  face 
in  shadow,  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  well  as  to  the 
Daltons  that  Frederick  took  but  scant  notice  of 
her.  He  scarcely  bestowed  a  glance  upon  that 
little  figure  sitting  there  silently  in  the  corner. 
But  Peggy  felt  more  than  ever  that  when  he  was 
present  he  did  appear  to  take  possession  of  all  her 
thoughts,  dominating  them  with  the  very  strength 
of  his  personality;  it  made  her  feel  young  and 
timid — and  absurd !  She  was  a  child  to  be  taught 
and  scolded  and  ordered  about  in  that  impatient, 
half-scornful  way. 

It  is  not  always  easy  for  two  guests  to  obtain 
a  long  and  private  interview  in  another  person's 
house.  Short  of  giving  Mrs.  Dalton  the  key  to 
the  whole  situation,  which  Frederick  felt  a  little 
shy  about  doing,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  see 
Peggy  alone.  After  tea  they  would  probably  all 
continue  to  sit  there  and  talk  until  it  was  time 
to  dress  for  dinner.  And  after  dinner  there 
would  be  more  conversation  and  perhaps  a  rubber 
of  bridge  till  bed-time.  And  in  the  morning 
Peggy  was  to  leave  for  town  by  an  early  train; 
she  would  have  to  start  soon  after  eight  o'clock. 

Of  course,  he  could  go  off  to  the  smoking-room 
whenever  he  wished,  he  reflected  gloomily.  But 
even  so  it  would  be  impossible  to  ask  Peggy  to 


368  THE  REST  HOUSE 

come  with  him.  Now  that  at  last  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  speak  to  her  he  was  perhaps  going 
to  be  denied  the  opportunity. 

Yet  how  absurd  of  him  ever  to  imagine  that 
she  could  learn  to  care  for  him !  Just  now,  when 
she  had  given  him  her  hand  for  that  brief  second 
the  conventions  demanded,  it  had  lain  cold  and 
still  in  his.  Her  face  when  she  greeted  him  had 
betrayed  no  pleasure,  only  perhaps  a  timid  anx- 
iety. Fool — fool — that  he  had  been  to  come ! 

But  Bridget  unwittingly  gave  him  the  oppor- 
tunity he  was  seeking. 

"There  is  Benediction  at  the  convent  this  even- 
ing, Peggy.  I  think  you  said  you  would  like  to 
go.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  come  with  you,  but  you 
know  the  way,"  she  remarked  after  tea. 

"Yes — I  should  like  to  go,"  said  Peggy.  "I 
will  go  and  put  on  my  things." 

It  was  a  relief  to  escape  from  the  room.  The 
sight  of  Frederick  had  filled  her  with  that  strange 
and  trembling  excitement  his  presence  never 
failed  to  evoke  in  her.  He  made  her  feel  wonder- 
fully alive,  but  unhappy  and  restless,  too,  and 
even  a  little  afraid.  It  would  be  a  relief  to  go 
to  the  convent  and  pray. 

She  moved  away,  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  her 
hands  hanging  limply.  Frederick's  large  black 
eyes  were  fastened  upon  her  retreating  figure. 
To  permit  her  to  go  forth  into  a  cruel  and  hostile 
world  to  earn  her  own  bread  seemed  to  him  a 
thing  that  was  almost  criminal.  She  had  hardly 
closed  the  door  when  he  burst  forth : 

"You  can  not  be  serious  in  saying  that  child 
is  going  to  earn  her  own  living!  Why,  she  is 


THE  REST  HOUSE  369 

hardly  better  than  a  baby — and  she  must  be 
nearly  as  useless  and  ignorant." 

"She  will  learn,"  said  Mrs.  Dalton  calmly, 
"and  I  do  not  agree  with  you  that  she  is  so  very 
young.  She  is  quite  determined  to  go,  and  there 
is  an  obstinacy  about  her  which  one  can't  touch. 
You  must  see  that  for  yourself,  for  how  else 
would  she  have  persisted  in  becoming  a  Catholic 
in  the  face  of  so  much  cruel  opposition?  There 
is  something  very  sterling  about  Peggy  Met- 
calf e.  I  am  sure  she  doesn't  care  at  all  for  all  the 
money  she  has  had  to  give  up.  She  has  got  what 
she  wanted,  and  she  seems  perfectly  satisfied,  ex- 
cept for  the  very  natural  pain  at  having  to  re- 
nounce her  own  people." 

"And  what  can  they  be  made  of  to  turn  a  baby 
like  that  adrift?"  demanded  Frederick  fiercely. 

Bridget  looked  at  him  with  surprise;  she  had 
never  seen  him  so  deeply  roused  before.  His  eyes 
were  blazing. 

"Oh,  they  know  where  she  is  now,"  returned 
Mrs.  Dalton, in  her  pleasant, matter-of-fact  way; 
"they  know  she  is  safe.  They  seem  to  hope  she'll 
get  tired  of  it  and  give  up  her  religion  and  go 
back  to  be  forgiven.  Lady  Metcalfe  has  even 
sent  her  a  little  money  through  the  elder  son." 

Frederick  rose  and  paced  up  and  down  the 
room  in  a  restless,  agitated  manner.  Suddenly 
he  said: 

"You  must  forgive  me,  Mrs.  Dalton,  but  I 
really  must  make  one  more  effort  to  induce  her  to 
give  up  this  mad  scheme.  I  will  walk  to  the  con- 
vent with  her — we  can  discuss  it  on  the  way !" 

Bridget's  heart  sank  as  he  announced  this  in- 


370  THE  REST  HOUSE 

tention.  Whatever  he  meant  to  say  to  her,  it 
was  quite  evident  that  his  thoughts  were  full  of 
Peggy,  and  if  they  gave  evidence  of  anger  and 
irritability  and  impatience,  there  seemed  to  lie 
behind  them  also  an  almost  fierce  solicitude  for 
her  welfare. 

When  Peggy,  dressed  in  her  outdoor  things, 
came  down  the  stairs  into  the  hall,  she  saw  Fred- 
erick's great  figure  standing  there  as  if  awaiting 
her. 

"Are  you  ready?"  he  said.  "I  am  coming  with 
you.  It  is  much  too  dark  for  you  to  go  alone  and 
it  was  very  thoughtless  of  Bridget  to  suggest  it. 
She  forgets  that  you  are  not  used  to  tearing  over 
the  country  at  all  hours  as  she  is!" 

"I  don't  mind  going  alone,"  said  Peggy 
quietly;  "I  should  like  to  be  as  brave  and  inde- 
pendent as  Bridget." 

Morford  opened  the  door.  The  night  was  fine 
and  above  the  tall  elms  a  young  sickle  moon,  a 
mere  thread  of  silver,  was  visible,  cutting  the  sky 
like  a  white  gash.  A  cold  and  buoyant  breeze 
touched  their  faces.  Morford  strode  forward  a 
few  paces  ahead  of  Peggy  as  if  he  were  leading 
the  way.  He  turned  across  the  garden  and 
through  a  little  gate  that  led  down  a  private  patli 
to  the  convent.  Here  high  trees  formed  an  arch- 
way above  their  heads,  producing  a  deep  ob- 
scurity. 

"I  never  come  this  way  by  myself,"  said  Peggy, 
"it  is  so  dark.  I  keep  to  the  road,  though  it  is  so 
much  longer." 

Morford  did  not  reply,  and  Peggy  thought  he 


THE  REST  HOUSE  371 

must  have  come  out  against  his  inclination  on 
purpose  to  accompany  her  and  protect  her  from 
possible  danger.  Throughout  the  walk  to  the 
chapel  he  did  not  say  a  single  word,  but  took 
advantage  of  the  narrowness  of  the  path  to  walk 
on  ahead  of  her. 

It  was  impossible  for  Peggy  ever  to  hear  Bene- 
diction without  feelings  of  the  most  profound 
emotion.  To  that  service,  eternally  beautiful  and 
consoling,  many  persons  have  owed  their  con- 
version. Peggy  was  aware  that  she  owed  hers  to 
that  first  Benediction  in  the  little  chapel  at  the 
Rest  House,  where  for  the  first  time  she  had  knelt 
unknowing  in  the  presence  of  the  Blessed  Sac- 
rament. 

To-night  she  forgot  Frederick,  who  was  kneel- 
ing only  a  few  paces  from  her,  his  dark  head 
bowed  upon  his  hands,  his  lips  moving  in  in- 
audible prayer.  The  thought  of  to-morrow, 
which  promised  to  be  the  starting-point,  the 
threshold  of  a  new  and  strange  life  during  which 
it  was  quite  possible  that  her  perseverance  and 
fidelity  might  even  be  put  to  most  fiery  proof, 
filled  her  to-night  with  no  kind  of  fear.  This 
much  she  knew  with  a  deep  gratefulness,  that  she 
would  always  have  these  unchangeable  spiritual 
things  to  help  her;  in  all  her  journeying  she 
would  never  be  far  from  this  most  Holy  Pres- 
ence. And  although  there  was  something  cold 
and  forlorn  in  the  prospect  of  going  away  to  be 
among  strangers,  it  did  not  to-night  give  her  too 
much  cause  for  apprehension.  She  was  not 
strong — as  Morford  had  once  scornfully  told  her 


372  THE  REST  HOUSE 

— she  was  not  the  stuff  of  which  martyrs  are 
made.  Only  she  had  the  faith,  and  she  wanted 
passionately  to  be  worthy  of  this  great  grace. 

The  lights  on  the  altar  had  all  been  extin- 
guished before  she  rose  from  her  knees  with  a 
little  start  and  a  feeling  of  compunction  that  per- 
haps she  had  kept  Morford  waiting.  She  felt 
happier;  those  prayers  had  strengthened  her;  she 
felt  more  hopeful,  less  nervous.  As  she  rose  and 
moved  toward  the  door  the  light  fell  full  upon 
her  face.  She  reminded  Morford  of  some  picture 
he  had  seen  years  ago — a  St.  Agnes,  perhaps,  at 
any  rate  one  of  the  girl-martyrs — with  just  such 
an  uplifted,  tranquil  expression.  He  stood  aside, 
allowing  her  to  pass,  watching  her  with  a  curi- 
ously intent  expression  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed 
to  discern  something  in  Peggy's  face  then  that 
had  never  been  there  before — a  strength  and  pur- 
pose of  which  he  had  hardly  deemed  her  capable. 
Across  his  mind  words  traveled  rapidly,  he  almost 
repeated  them  aloud:  "My  grace  is  sufficient  for 
thee" 

He  followed  Peggy  in  silence  out  of  the  gate 
and  into  the  lane  beyond. 

"Shall  we  go  back  by  the  road?"  he  said  to  her. 

"Very  well,'*  she  answered. 

They  went  forward  in  silence.  The  road  that 
dips  to  Bargrove  is  broad  and  has  grassy  spaces 
on  both  sides  of  it,  and  then  a  low  stone  wall 
loosely  built  to  divide  it  from  the  fields  beyond. 
And  the  fields  are  not  flat — they  slope  and  spread 
right  up  to  the  top  of  the  wolds.  In  the  pale 
moonlight  could  be  discerned  the  dark  and  en- 


THE  REST  HOUSE  373 

circling  shape  of  the  hills,  cut  at  intervals  by  the 
black  rim  of  the  walls  that  separated  field  from 
field. 

There  had  been  days  since  their  last  meeting 
when  Frederick  had  thought  it  might  be  perhaps 
an  easy  thing  to  speak  to  this  girl  whose  change 
of  circumstances  had  placed  her  within  his  reach. 
But  now  in  her  presence  it  seemed  no  longer  easy. 
He  felt  certain  that  she  had  never  regarded  him 
with  anything  but  a  friendly  indifference,  tem- 
pered with  a  little  fear  of  his  strength  and  rough- 
ness. Their  mutual  positions  had  been  almost 
those  of  teacher  and  pupil.  And  now  if  she  re- 
fused to  listen — if  she  would  not  hear  him — she 
would  have  to  go  forth  alone  to  earn  her  bread. 
No  one  in  the  world  could  be  less  suited  for  that 
task  than  she. 

He  slackened  his  steps ;  at  this  rate  they  would 
be  back  at  the  house  before  he  had  uttered  a 
word. 

"What  has  put  it  into  your  head  to  leave  the 
Daltons  like  this?"  he  said  at  last.  "I  am  sure 
they  have  done  everything  they  possibly  can  to 
make  you  feel  happy  and  at  home." 

"Oh,  indeed  they  have,"  said  Peggy  eagerly, 
"but  I  think  it  is  my  duty  to  try  to  work  for 
my  own  living.  And  the  sooner  I  begin  the 
better.  I  am  so  stupid  that  I  am  sure  I  shall 
not  find  it  at  all  easy." 

There  was  something  so  naive  in  this  admission 
that  it  won  an  unwilling  smile  from  Frederick. 
He  stopped  and  looked  at  Peggy.  Their  two  fig- 
ures made  black  blots  in  the  broad,  moonlit  read. 
There  was  not  a  great  deal  of  light,  but  he  felt 


374  THE  REST  HOUSE 

certain  as  he  looked  at  her  that  he  could  see  tears 
glistening  on  those  thick  black  lashes. 

"But  I  think,"  she  went  on  in  that  slow,  tran- 
quil way  of  hers,  "that  my  being  a  Catholic  will 
make  lots  of  things  much  easier — even  hard,  diffi- 
cult, disagreeable  things." 

"Of  course  it  will,"  agreed  Frederick.  He 
scarcely  knew  what  he  was  saying,  so  great  was 
his  longing  then  to  take  Peggy  in  his  arms  and 
hold  her  to  his  heart,  and  shut  out  from  her  for- 
ever all  that  was  hard  and  difficult  and  disagree- 
able. His  control  was  breaking  down.  She  was 
still  the  child  of  rich  parents,  delicately  nurtured, 
brought  up  to  every  imaginable  luxury,  and  he 
could  not  but  believe  that  some  day  she  would  be 
restored  to  their  favor.  But  here,  to-night,  she 
was  only  the  girl  who  had  coolly  faced  such  im- 
mense temporal  losses  for  the  Faith,  a  girl  strong 
in  spite  of  her  weakness,  and  steadfast  in  the  front 
of  cruel  opposition.  The  thought  that  he  had 
ever  misjudged  her  smote  him  now  like  a  self- 
inflicted  blow. 

"Miss  Metcalfe — my  dear  Peggy — "  he  stam- 
mered, and  now  he  found  he  had  no  words  with 
which  to  speak  the  thoughts  that  thronged  to  his 
mind  as  he  stood  there  gazing  into  her  pale  and 
astonished  face.  "My  dear,  dear  Peggy,"  he  re- 
peated, and  his  voice  was  so  softened  that  it 
sounded  in  her  ears  like  some  unbelievable  music, 
thrilling  and  bewildering  her. 

She  felt  that  she  must  be  dreaming.  It  was 
impossible  for  Frederick  to  have  spoken  thus  to 
her — she  must  have  made  a  mistake.  Yet  that 
"My  dear,  dear  Peggy"  echoed  and  echoed  across 


THE  REST  HOUSE  375 

the  silence.  And  then  surely  these  were  no 
dream  hands,  but  things  of  warm  flesh  and  blood, 
that  were  clasping  hers  as  if  they  would  never  let 
them  go.  She  made  no  attempt  to  free  herself, 
to  shorten  that  moment  that  held  so  much  and 
such  thrilling  happiness.  And  across  the  con- 
fusion and  bewilderment  of  her  own  thoughts 
these  words  came  caressingly : 

"My  darling — I  can't  let  you  go!  I  love  you 
too  much.  Oh,  don't  tell  me  that  my  love  is 
nothing  at  all  to  you !  I  want  you  to  come  back 
to  the  Rest  House  with  me — I  want  you  to  be 
my  wife.  Oh,  I  shall  never  forget  that  night,  not 
three  weeks  ago,  when  you  came  back — all  cold 
and  wet  and  frightened.  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
then  all  that  your  coming  meant  to  me — how  I 
had  dreamed  of  it  through  those  months  and 
months  of  silence  when  no  word  of  you  ever 
reached  my  ears."  Still  holding  her  hands  in  that 
passionate  grasp,  he  drew  her  to  him;  her  head 
was  against  his  heart,  he  could  feel  her  shiver  and 
sob.  "Speak  to  me,  Peggy!  Tell  me  that  you 
love  me — that  you  will  be  my  wife."  Harsh  and 
imperious  as  ever,  his  voice  was  informed  with  a 
fear,  a  passionate  suspense  to  which  she  could 
not  remain  indifferent. 

Strange  to  say  that  Peggy,  listening  in  an  en- 
chanted silence  to  Frederick's  words,  was  rapidly 
losing  all  fear  of  him.  She  felt,  indeed,  a  new 
sense  of  security,  more  complete  and  permanent 
than  she  had  ever  experienced  even  in  her  past 
sheltered  life.  To  marry  Morford  and  to  be  with 
him  forever  and  ever  seemed  in  her  eyes  now 
the  only  perfect  earthly  security.  And  dimly 


376  THE  REST  HOUSE 

she  guessed  that  this  man  was  offering  her  a  hap- 
piness which  Diana  and  Beatrice  had  never 
dreamed  of.  It  was  from  joy  and  not  from  fear 
that  she  trembled  now  and  clung  to  Frederick  for 
support. 

"Oh,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  never  thought  you 
even  liked  me.  I  felt  so  silly  and  nervous  and 
young  when  you  were  there.  It  never  entered  my 
head  that  you  could  possibly  want  to  marry  me. 
Besides,  Beatrice  told  me — that  you  were  en- 
gaged to  Bridget." 

"To  Bridget?"  he  echoed  in  astonishment,  and 
with  a  most  comfortingly  unlover-like  emphasis 
upon  the  name.  "Why,  I  have  known  Bridget 
since  I  was  at  school.  We  are  more  like  brother 
and  sister  than  anything  else.  Surely  you  didn't 
believe  that  silly  gossip,  Peggy?" 

"I  didn't  see  why  it  should  not  be  true,"  ad- 
mitted Peggy. 

"Well,  you  know  now  that  there  isn't  a  single 
word  of  truth  in  it,"  said  Frederick,  "so  will  you 
please  give  your  attention  to  the  matter  in  hand  ? 
Will  you  give  me  a  straightforward  answer? 
Will  you  marry  me,  Peggy?  I'm  poor,  and  I've 
very  little  to  offer  you  except  my  love,  which  is 
all  yours  and  has  been  yours,  I  believe  now,  since 
the  day  I  first  saw  you." 

Now  there  could  be  no  mistake  about  those 
tears  that  hung  on  the  black  lashes,  glistening 
almost  frostily  in  the  moonlight.  When  she 
spoke,  the  words  were  almost  inaudible ;  he  had  to 
bend  his  head  to  catch  them. 

"Yes — I  love  you.  I  didn't  know  it  till  now, 
but  I  think  I  must  have  loved  you  all  the  time, 


THE  REST  HOUSE  377 

because  when  I  thought  of  you  I  knew  I  could 
never  marry  Hugh — not  even  to  please  them  all." 

"And  you  will  be  my  wife?  And  you  will  give 
up  this  mad  scheme  of  earning  your  own  living? 
You  will  stay  here  or  at  the  convent  in  London 
until  we  can  be  married?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peggy  very  seriously,  "I  will  do 
whatever  you  wish,  Frederick — whatever  you 
think  best  for  me." 

There  was  no  one  in  sight.  They  might  have 
been  alone  in  the  world,  with  only  the  young 
moon — who  has  watched  millions  of  such  lovers 
plighting  their  troth — to  witness  the  little  drama 
of  their  betrothal. 

Morford  bent  his  head  and  pressed  his  lips  to 
hers. 

"Oh,  Peggy,  my  darling,  my  beloved,"  he  mur- 
mured. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

MRS.    DALTON    communicated    the    news    of 
Peggy's  engagement  to  Lady  Metcalfe  in 
a  letter  of  which  the  following  extract  may  be 
given : 

"I  am  sure  they  will  be  very  happy,"  she  wrote ; 
"it  is  a  real  love  match,  and  they  are  very  devoted 
to  each  other.  But  while  I  feel  you  may  have 
had  much  more  ambitious  hopes  for  your  daugh- 
ter, I  can  only  tell  vou  there  is  no  man  to  whom 

*  * 

I  would  rather  have  given  one  of  my  own  girls 
than  Frederick  Morford.  I  have  known  him 
since  he  was  a  boy,  and  I  know  what  a  splendid, 
courageous,  upright,  and  unselfish  man  he  is.  I 
feel  that  the  only  thing  necessary  to  complete 
Peggy's  happiness  now  is  to  receive  your  ap- 
proval and  forgiveness,  and  I  hope  and  pray  that 
in  time  you  may  be  able  to  grant  her  both." 

After  what  she  had  learned  from  Mrs.  Gil- 
lespie,  the  news  was  not  really  a  matter  of  very 
great  surprise  to  Lady  Metcalfe.  She  had  been 
expecting  to  hear  something  of  the  kind,  and  as 
Peggy  had  wrought  such  deliberate  havoc  of  her 
young  life  and  had  shattered  her  own  prospects 
with  such  wilful  recklessness,  the  knowledge  that 
she  was  going  to  be  married  came  almost  as  a 
relief.  She  would  be  very  poor,  of  course — the 
man  hadn't  a  penny  beyond  that  wretched  little 
property  with  the  ridiculous  name  down  in  the 
wilds  of  Somersetshire!  But  at  least  she  would 

378 


THE  REST  HOUSE  379 

have  a  home,  and  anyhow  that  was  better  than 
working  for  her  living,  which  Peter  had  declared 
was  Peggy's  intention. 

But  what  distressed  Lady  Metcalfe  very  much 
indeed  was  to  think  that  her  daughter's  engage- 
ment should  have  taken  place  under  the  roof  of 
some  one  she  had  never  seen,  and  that  another 
woman  should  have  been  the  first  to  kiss  and  con- 
gratulate Peggy  in  that  wonderful  and  radiant 
moment  of  her  life.  There  was  no  doubt  that 
parents  could  not  inflict  drastic  punishment  upon 
their  children  without  bringing  upon  themselves 
a  measure  of  that  punishment.  Lady  Metcalfe 
felt  a  fierce  jealousy  of  this  Mrs.  Dalton,  who 
wrote  with  such  affection  and  solicitude  of  Peggy. 
She  felt  as  if  an  interloper  had  usurped  her  own 
rights  and  privileges.  Without  consulting  Sir 
John,  she  sat  down  and  wrote  a  very  loving  little 
letter  to  Peggy,  which  made  her  daughter  very 
happy  indeed.  She  never  guessed  that  the  letter 
was  the  outcome  of  violent  maternal  jealousy. 

The  wedding  took  place  in  London  early  in  the 
New  Year.  Lady  Metcalfe,  Peter,  Diana  and 
Beatrice  were  all  present,  as  well  as  the  Daltons, 
the  Sacheverells  and  Mrs.  Gillespie.  Sir  John, 
still  obdurate  and  a  little  annoyed  at  his  wife's 
obstinate  attitude,  declined  to  see  Peggy  or  to 
make  any  provision  for  her.  By  this  marriage 
she  had,  in  his  opinion,  set  the  seal  upon  her  dis- 
obedience and  rebellion. 

Lady  Metcalfe  had  never  been  present  at  a 
Nuptial  Mass  before,  and  she  was  obliged  to  ad- 
mit that  it  was  a  most  imposing  ceremony  and 


380  THE  REST  HOUSE 

that  the  music  was  very  beautifully  rendered. 
She  felt  proud  of  Peggy,  who  looked  pale  but 
beautiful  in  her  white  bridal  array.  As  for  Mor- 
ford — Lady  Metcalfe  was  further  obliged  to 
admit  that  Beatrice  had  done  him  scant  justice. 
He  was  handsome  enough  to  have  captured  the 
heart  of  any  impressionable  young  girl,  and  that 
he  was  deeply  in  love  with  Peggy  no  one  could 
deny  who  saw  him  on  that  important  occasion. 
Lady  Metcalfe,  though  she  would  hardly  ac- 
knowledge it  even  to  herself,  was  very  agreeably 
impressed  in  Frederick's  favor. 

When  the  service  was  over  she  was  the  first  to 
go  up  to  Peggy  and  put  her  arms  round  her  neck 
and  kiss  her. 

"Dear  Peggy,"  she  murmured,  "I  hope  you 
will  be  very  happy." 

And  Peggy  clung  to  her  mother  and  kissed 
her  just  as  she  had  done  when  she  was  a  little 
girl.  Her  eyes  were  bright  with  unshed  tears. 

"I  know  now  that  I  must  have  cared  for  him 
ever  since  I  first  went  to  the  Rest  House,"  whis- 
pered Peggy,  "and  that  was  when  he  first  began 
to  care  for  me." 

Then  it  was  Peter's  turn. 

"Pegs,  darling — I  know  you'll  be  awfully 
happy,  and  I  hope  you'll  never  regret  the  things 
you've  had  to  give  up!"  he  murmured,  kissing 
her.  "You  always  said  you  wouldn't  choose  the 
fleshpots  when  the  time  came!" 

"Oh,  Peter,  I'm  sure  I  shan't  regret  them.  I've 
got  such  lovely  things,  you  see,  in  place  of  them ! 
And  now  mother's  forgiven  me  I  feel  very 
happy." 


THE  REST  HOUSE  381 

Before  they  parted  Lady  Metcalfe  had  a  few 
words  with  her  new  son-in-law.  Peggy  was  not 
at  all  robust,  she  informed  him ;  it  was  all  the  more 
strange  because  Diana  and  Beatrice  had  such 
splendid  constitutions,  but  then  Peggy  had  never 
resembled  her  sisters  in  any  one  way.  She  ad- 
monished him  always  to  take  great  care  of  Peggy, 
to  see  that  she  was  never  over-fatigued,  to  avoid 
for  her  any  extremes  of  heat  or  cold.  Frederick 
was  secretly  amused  at  this  manifestation  of  ma- 
ternal solicitude,  but  he  readily  promised  to  take 
all  necessary  precautions  for  the  safeguarding 
of  Peggy's  health. 

"Of  course  I  hope  her  father  will  relent  in  time, 
especially  if  there  are  any  children,"  continued 
Lady  Metcalfe  in  a  hurried  and  rather  embar- 
rassed tone,  "but  in  the  meantime  you  must  let 
me  do  what  I  can — I  only  wish  it  were  in  my 
power  to  do  more."  She  then  disclosed  her  plan 
of  settling  the  only  spare  capital  she  possessed 
upon  her  youngest  daughter.  Owing  to  the  in- 
tricate provisions  of  her  marriage  settlement,  she 
could  not  touch  any  of  her  own  Lampard  money, 
but  she  had  received  two  inconsiderable  legacies 
from  relations  and  these  she  now  proceeded  to 
hand  over  to  Mrs.  Morford.  Frederick  was 
touched  as  well  as  amused.  Viewed  by  the 
standards  of  the  Rest  House,  the  income  thus  de- 
rived would  constitute  wealth  and  even  affluence, 
and  he  felt  certain  of  their  ability  to  live  upon  it 
in  great  comfort. 

Morford  took  his  bride  back  to  the  Rest  House 
that  afternoon.  The  January  day  was  fine  and 
clear,  and  Lady  Denby  sent  her  motor  to  Cold- 


382  THE  REST  HOUSE 

ford  to  meet  the  bridal  couple  and  convey  them 
to  their  home.  As  they  drove  along  the  lanes 
between  the  high  brown  hedges  they  could  see 
glimpses  of  the  Mendip  hills  rising  softly  green 
against  the  pale  blue  of  the  winter  sky. 

Father  Denis  and  old  Martha  were  standing  in 
the  doorway  to  welcome  them.  As  they  entered 
the  hall  Frederick  and  Peggy  Morford  knelt 
down  to  receive  the  priest's  blessing  on  this  the 
threshold  of  their  new  life. 


THE  END 


P*INT«D     BY     BKN'ZIGER     BROTHERS,     NEW     YO«K 


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